<!--ADULTSONLY--> Disclaimer update April 2 2015 As of this time I am only posting my stories on ASSTR.org. I don't know of any other story site that allows underage characters. When I first started posting stories on the internet I posted them to Stories on Line (SOL). So some of my older stuff is on the site up to 2011 or 2012 I think, but I have not posted stories there for a couple of years now. They changed their minimum age requirements for characters to 18. So let me grovel here a bit. If you're reading this story on ASSTR please email me your thoughts about the story, good or bad, doesn't matter. I love hearing from readers and I respond to every email. I have some readers that I keep a constant correspondence with. Now to the disclaimer stuff: This story and all the stories I write are a work of fiction and special care was taken while writing the story - no letters were hurt when they were placed on the page. Any characters, places, businesses and/or circumstances etc. described herein are entirely fictional and are a product of my imagination. None of the following is based on real organisms or organizations, and any semblance to anyone or anything real, living, deceased or imaginary, is purely coincidental. There is no place called Cherish Valley in the United States that I am aware of. Every story I write contains sexual situations between adult females and young girls between 5 and 16 years old. These stories should not be read by anyone who is either not old enough to do so or who would be offended if they did. Most if not all of the stories I write contains explicit pornographic material; it is not for minors under the age of 18 or close-minded people. I write stories for my own enjoyment. I write stories in which adult women are degraded, humiliated, and fucked by young girls, although I have changed things up a bit recently with a couple stories that aren't exclusively lesbian in nature. Bottom line is I write stories for my own enjoyment. If this story seems to be better edited that is because I have a wonderful male editor who adds just the right amount of "filth" as he puts it into the story line. If there are any mistakes in the story as far as grammar or punctuation, then it is my error and not his. Thanks "A", you're wonderful and patient with me. I also want to thank several readers with whom I have become "email friends". I bounce story line ideas off of them and they and they come back with wonderful ideas and scenes that take me in different directions. Anyone who is an adult or age of majority, of course, is welcome to continue. Story codes that I write about are: Lesbian, scat, pee, piss, humiliation, consensual sex, child/underage sex, restraints, racial, bigotry, discrimination, anal sex, oral sex, vagina sex, young love, also asphyxiation, hanging, (NO Snuff, well, only one story), erotic hanging, punishments like spankings, whippings and canings, young girl domination with strap-on sex, rape. Not all of these story codes are in every story but a good majority of these codes are. Email me with your comments at: msteven1005@yahoo.com I reply to readers who take time to email me. Please, please, please email me your thoughts on the story. This story was originally uploaded this story to SOL four or five years ago. I always wanted to expand the story a little bit, give it more back ground. Several months ago I finally got around to rewriting it. I sent it to my editor "A" who exanded on several themes in the story which I am thankful for because I think it reads a lot better. I can't post the story to SOL because they have changed their terms of service, which is cool, so the new version will be posted only on ASSTR. The Game An extract from "Opening Petals - A study of the influence of television on pre-teen culture", by Dr Megan Stone. "The Game" is one of the most popular TV games amongst pre-teen girls ages 10 to 12. It is a voluntary hanging game that is open to six women contestants between the ages of 42 and 52, and is recorded at the government run television studios in the state capital every third Saturday of the month. During the hour long show, depending entirely on chance, two of the women will hang themselves and the remaining four will be paid a cash prize of $100,000. It was originally called "Your Number is up" but it has quickly become one of the highest rated shows in the country and is known to many simply as "The Game". Like all great TV game shows, the format of the game is very simple: the women stand nude on small stools with nooses around their necks on the stage in front of a large studio audience; a lottery machine randomly mixes six golf balls with numbers imprinted on them and when a ball pops up to the top of the glass bowl, the woman who has the corresponding number steps off her stool; as she does so, the stool slowly retracts into the floor, leaving the woman with no support so that she hangs herself. The randomness of the game is why young girls in the 10 - 12 age group find it so exciting to watch with the element of chance built into every stage of its preparation and performance. When a female contestant signs up on the website, an algorithm randomly selects contestants for that the upcoming game. Once the six contestants have been selected, they have to pick a number from one to six in order to determine which stool they will stand on. Finally, once the game is underway, a lottery machine then picks a random number in order to decide their fate. (One of the interesting by-products of the game is that a lot of bets are placed all over the country and a great deal of money exchanges hands when the contest is underway. One the more specialized bets that punters put money on is whether the hanging woman will pump her legs up and down in a bicycle riding motion or raise and lower her legs like she was running.) There are also very strict criteria for the initial selection of the contestants. Some women prefer to enter as individuals and pay the thousand dollars entry fee for themselves. Others are entered by their family or the business where they work, but one of the most popular ways to join is to form an all women's club or association where the pooled money is used to pay a member's entry fee. This is important because on their website, the Government insist that the criteria of selection of the six players is strictly adhered too: two of the women have to pay their own fee; two have to have their fee paid by their family; one woman has to be from a government registered business; and the last contestant, from a club or association. The computer randomly selects the contestants from each category and sends out notices to the winners. If for some reason the criteria aren't met for the month, then that month's prize money is carry over to the following month. Within weeks of the show's first broadcast, viewing figures across all age groups rocketed, particularly in the 10 - 12 year-old demographic, the pre-teens, and it is now established as the foremost game show on the air. Opinion as to why something so simple should be such a runaway success varies, from those who argue that the strict entry criteria enable the audience to empathise with particular contestants, to others who point out the excitement of the $100,000 prize money. However, the most accepted reason is the powerfully erotic nature of the show, especially among young girls. Female psychiatrists have found the 92% of girls under the age thirteen happily admit to masturbating whilst watching the contestants hang, and have cited this as clear evidence for the fostering and encouragement of pre-teen sexuality. ******* "The Game". Series 14, Episode 29. 21st September, 2024. Preparation. For today's game, the six women fortunate enough to be selected came from different parts of the country. All worked different jobs and had diverse backgrounds and as with all games of chance, some contestants and their families needed the money and while others joined the game for the thrill of beating the odds. However, there was always a third type of woman, one who applied not just for the money or the excitement, but also sheer erotic power of submitting themselves to such deadly risks. One of these was Mrs Marti Allen. Like everything about the show, "The Game" was very carefully organised. A week before the show the winning contestants for the upcoming show were sent nutrition guidelines of food and drink they should have. Three days before the show the producers sent each contestant six pills to take that would prevent them from having a bowel and urine movement on the day of the game. It was considered humiliating for the hanging woman to soil the floor beneath her as she dangled at the end of the rope. The women had to report to the TV studio by 3pm on Saturday, four hours before the show. The government treasurer had an office in the lobby where the thousand dollar fee was paid, either by the contestants themselves, their family, or a representative of their business or association. When the fees were paid and receipts given, everybody but the six contestants was ushered out of the lobby, and it was at this point that the women got their first nervous looks at each other. The contestants were taken to the dressing room where they removed their clothes, necklaces and ear rings and placed them in the named storage bags with their names printed on. Perhaps it was at this moment that the more perceptive women realised that in four hours time, two of these bags would have no owner. Once they were naked, the contestants were measured from their jaw line where the noose would be, to the tips of their toes. To get this measurement, they had to hold on to a bar that was raised just high enough to make the contestant stand on her tip-toes, another reminder of what they were about to do. An employee of the weights and measures department arrived to correlate and verify the information and the measurement was then entered into a hand-held computer which calculated the length of rope needed so that a contestant would just feel the floor with just the tips of her toes as she hung. Next, the six totally nude contestants were led down the busy hallway by one of the producers to the hair department. For most of them, this was their first time nude in a public place: they covered their breasts with one arm and placed their hand over their crotches as they scurried down the hallway behind the producer, but nobody paid much attention to them as there were a lot of important details to care off before the show aired. Hair was one of the most significant. The rules stated that each contestant had to have their hair styled in a bun, on top of their head, not on the back. It was considered unsightly that a contestant's hair should become entangled in the rope and so the hairdressers made sure that the pull the hair tight into a bun. This had the additional advantage of leaving an unobscured view the neck and the rope, enabling those ever popular close-ups of the noose tightening against the soft skin as the unfortunate contestant swung in her death throes. After this, all body hair from the neck down was shaved off and the skin made to look smooth with scented body oil. The application of the oil took the form of a massage by pairs of girls' ages 7 to 9 who had been specially selected from the numerous hanging clubs around the country. The massage training took place at their hanging club but the massage certifications were issued from the government. The girls had to meet a rigid set of standards to be able to get certified. To get on the show the girls went to the same website as the women and applied much the same way. Twelve girls were selected for each show, two per contestant. The youngsters and their families were brought in the day before the show. The contestants were assigned to a massage room where two girls were waiting for them. Because of the intimacy, there had long been demand to film the massage as part of the programme, but organisers insisted that this was a private moment. The nature of the massage and the orgasms which so often resulted were like a communion, and it was felt that its purity would be ruined by television cameras. By 5pm the producer walked contestants to the "make-up" department for their manicure, pedicure and have make-up applied for their up close interviews with the camera. This, along with the oiling and the hairdressing, was done for two reasons: obviously to enhance the self-confidence of the women, but also to enhance their sexuality. It was part of the delicate balance the show managed to maintain, between the overt sexual nature of six naked women on show to the world, and the more subtle eroticism of the deadly game they had agreed to play. After the make-up was completed the contestants filled out legal paperwork. It seemed a formality but in effect it held the organisers and the government blameless if something bad happened like a rope breaking or a piece of equipment failing during the show. For example, in a previous show, a contestant whose number had been drawn stepped off the stool but the stool failed to retract so she stepped back on the stool. She stepped off a second time but the stool still didn't retract so she stepped back on the stool and announced that she should not have to hang because she fulfilled the terms of the game by stepping off the stool. The host of the game was summoned by the judges and for five minutes they deliberated the rules. As they talked, the contestant was trying to make her case with growing desperation that she shouldn't have to hang. Eventually, the host came over to the edge of the stage where a pre-teen girl who was specially selected for a situation like this was standing and said something to her. The youngster nodded her head several times and walked out on the stage towards the contestant. The girl put her arms around the contestants waist and gently lifted her off the stool then used her left foot to press the emergency retract button on the leg of the stool, all the while the desperate woman was struggling in the girls grip and protesting loudly she should not have to hang. The girl put the contestant back on the now retracting stool and stepped away to the corner of the stage. The contestant's feet were struggling to find support, tears streaming down her face as she tried to reason with the judges, the host, the girl, anybody who would listen. The audience became silent when the contestant's protests were cut off as the retracting stool became even with the floor and rope bit into her neck. She started pumping her legs like she was riding a bike but with each jerk of her body the rope tightened, her face reddened and her eyes bulged. After a couple of minutes the woman stopped moving and shortly after that the life went out of her eyes. The audience stood and clapped and cheered, the men and boys jerking their cocks as the woman gently swung back forth, the moans and groans of the women and girls as they came. Afterwards, the family of the woman was paid the $100,000 because she did fulfil the rules of the game, but she still had to hang because her number was selected. After the legal forms where signed and witnessed the contestants had to select their number. It was a simple ceremony for such an important and nerve-wracking decision: each of the women reached into a hat to select a ball on which was written the number of the stool she would be standing on. While the contestants were being prepared, there was a great deal of other activity. Outside the TV studio a long line of people were waiting to get in while the studio was readied. The studio could seat a thousand people and the front two rows were reserved for family, co-workers, club and association members of the contestants and families of the young girls were selected to help out. There were two camera crews on stage that groups or businesses could sponsor. Every month the sponsors changed so that businesses or groups around the country were given equal access to the bidding rights for the cameras. There were also cameras above and behind the contestants to ensure that every angle was covered during a hanging. Once more, the government offered different cameras to advertisers so that viewers watching via the net would see the advertiser's logo and products around the edge of the camera screen. Because of the popularity of the show, this was an easy and very lucrative revenue stream for the government. Another very lucrative option was that cameras were set up to focus exclusively on one particular part of a woman as she hanged - her face, her genitals or her legs: for an extra fee, internet viewers could stream into the camera of their choice. And it wasn't just the contestants who came in for scrutiny. A recent development designed to raise revenue was the introduction of audience cams, available only on an internet subscription. These focused on the audience's reactions as the show went on, especially when the erotic power of the action built up towards the end. The most lucrative of these was "Cuntcam" which concentrated on women and girls as they masturbated to the sight of swinging bodies and dancing legs. There were two types of seats in the auditorium, cushioned seats for the male viewer and glass seats for the female viewer with the seats easily interchangeable should there be more male viewers than female viewers on any particular show. Under the glass seats the show installed in-floor cameras. All female viewers no matter their age were encouraged to wear dresses and no panties to the show. The women and girls were given gift certificates to department stores for voluntarily complying with the wishes of the show. Hence the word "Cuntcam" because internet subscribers had a clear view of the cunt of each female no matter her age. "Time to get into position, ladies," announced the production assistant and led the women down a corridor and suddenly out onto the stage. The curtains were closed but the stage was already awash with light, illuminating the colourful set, the six numbered footstools arranged in a shallow arc, and most significantly, reflecting the arc, six ropes swaying gently from a beam high above them. As props, they looked so simple, but they disguised a wealth of technology: the stools were designed to retract fully into the stage at a steady speed, slowly enough to allow the hanging woman some desperate hope of support, but relentlessly enough for her to realise how short lived that hope would be; the rope, of infinite strength, was electronically controlled through a chip which calculated the weight and height of each woman so that, as she swayed in the noose, her desperately outstretched toes would just be able to brush across the floor below her. On the far left, one stool, number six, remained vacant as Mrs Marti Allen stepped out naked onto the stage. Marti wasn't cold being naked, but she was shivering in anticipation and hardly aware of her fellow contestants as she took her position next to the swaying rope. On the drive over to the studio earlier with her family, her daughter Nicki asked her what the odds would be if she picked stool number three like she had the previous two times she had competed. Marti replied that she didn't know the odds but it would be cool to stand on number three; three was her lucky number from the last two times she had been in the game, each time winning $100,000. One of the most important jobs on the show was the "Hanging Expert". The hanging expert was a pre-teen between the ages of 10 and 12 drawn from hanging clubs around the country. These girls earned their government certifications in hanging women for fun and games in their clubs and in sports competitions at their schools. One of the requirements to be a hanging expert on the show was a psychological test to determine if the girl could push or lift a contestant off her stool so that she was hung until she died. Most girls this age accepted the fact that a woman might be reluctant to hang herself and so had no problem in assisting the woman to her death. It was this cold calculation that the show's producers were looking for. It was a source of pride amongst the young hanging experts that had been on the show that they could assist the reluctant contestant in hanging herself. To be on the show the girls had to register on the website and once a month a random drawing was conducted to pick the hanging expert for the next show. Almost all hanging clubs around the country held "drawing" parties in anticipation of one of their young experts being selected. The girl and her family were flown to the show and were put up in a high-end hotel. The youngster met the contestants while they were weighed and measured for their nooses then followed the contestants as they were readied for the show. Most of the contestants knew who the girl was and what her job on the show would be and even though the youngster was cute and non-threatening they knew that the girl would not hesitate in killing them. Eleven year-old Trudy walked out on stage carrying a five foot step ladder. She wore a see thru white blouse that had the name of her club emblazoned across the front, "Club Asphyxiation". She wore a short plaid skirt with no underwear and white knee high stockings with black six inch stiletto heels. In the two weeks leading up to the show Trudy practiced wearing the six stiletto heels around her house and at her club. It would be total humiliation if she would trip or fall while on stage in front of the whole country. Trudy walked over to Marti but she waved the girl off and pulled the noose down over her head with her own hands, sliding it easily over her bun. She held the long knot before her face for a moment then moved it around to her left ear. The first time she had played the game nine months ago, she read the book that Nicki had brought her which stated that the placement of the knot behind her ear could provide her the longest conscious time, and allow her to look at the audience instead of down at her toes. If tonight were to be her night, she hoped the book was right. If she were to lose the game (or was it win?), she wanted to see the audience while they watched her willingly hang herself for their entertainment. She wanted them to see her face as she orgasmed, not just her forehead. Most of all, she would wanted to stretch out the experience for the audience and those watching on TV and the internet before the noose finished its work. Trudy took Marti's hands, placed then behind her back, and attached blue handcuffs to her wrists: the blue handcuffs signified that she had personally paid her own entry fee to the game, rather than have it provided by her family or some organisation. Although her wrists were bound, her ankles were not. The rules of the game stated that a woman's ankles should not be tied: the viewing audience, to their delight, would want to see a hanging woman's feet vainly kick and strain to find a solid surface as she tried to save herself, even though it would be just beyond reach of her outstretched toes. The youngster touched a button on her hand held computer, making rope above Marti rise until it was taut. The girl stepped onto her step ladder and adjusted the noose to make it tight around Marti's neck. She checked the knot, asked if Marti was happy with its position, and pushed another button which loosened the rope just a little bit then locked it in place. Based on Marti's height and weight the rope should be in perfect position so that her toes just brushed the floor. Finally, Trudy touched Marti's shoulder, then the knot, and stepped down the ladder before working her way around the stage, adjusting the nooses of the other five women. Marti watched the girl do her work around the stage. The girl had a no nonsense attitude which she appreciated. It was hard to find young kids today with positive work ethic like Trudy. One of the female production assistants walked out in front of the contestants and held up five fingers: five minutes. Marti felt a spurt of adrenalin hit her stomach and her heart thumped in her chest. Whatever she did, she had to concentrate on standing still. She remembered the director's words from the first contest she entered, and they still sent a chill through her: "The little stools you will be standing on will be locked in place based your body weight. That means that if you step of the stool or fall off the stool it will retract into the floor. There will be no stopping it nor will anybody come and save you." She had stopped and looked at each of them. "So please keep your jubilation to a minimum if you make it to the end of the game tonight." Last year there had been a contestant who was so happy at making it to the end of the game that she jumped and up and down in the stool. Her feet were sweaty of course and she slipped, and as soon as it detected the change in weight, the stool started to retract. The contestant managed to regain her balance but the stool continued its electronic withdrawal while she started to plead and cry for help. There was nothing anyone could do except stand and watch while the audience stared in silence and the cameras recorded everything. Once the stool tucked into the floor the woman held herself straight at first with her toes just barely touching the floor, then started to pump her legs like she was running. She struggled for breath, wheezing the whole time until her movements started slowed down and her face changed to the color of purple. In less than four minutes from the time of her jubilation at surviving the game she was gently swinging back and forth, her head leaning to the left with her tongue slightly hanging out of her dead mouth. The audience stood and clapped and cheered. Her family got no compensation from the show so they tried to sue the government but lost because she did sign the legal papers warning about such behavior while standing on the stool. Her feet firmly planted on the stool and her neck held steady by the tight noose, Marti was able to turn her head and look at the other five women on their stools. She knew from the first game she entered that the arc of the stools' positions was not simply for the benefit of the cameras but also a courtesy to the contestants: when one of them was hanged, the others would have a very clear view of the process. The women on stools one and three had red handcuffs, meaning that a member of their family had paid their fees. This category of contestant was always popular: many in the audience preferred to see a woman, sometimes quite reluctant when the moment came, hanged because their family had risked her life for $100,000. Equally popular were women like Marti and the woman on stool four, women so fascinated and aroused by the noose that they actually paid the fee themselves to enter the game. Least popular of the contestants tended to be those in black handcuffs like the woman on stool two, whose co-workers had paid her fees, and those in pink, like the woman on stool five, whose association had paid her entry fee. Although the show had not yet started, and the curtains were still closed, Marti felt an amazing erotic charge around her, in her nakedness, in the anxious faces of the other women, in the subdued murmur of anticipation from the other side of the curtain. She felt the the anticipation herself, in the beat of her heart and the seeping wetness between her legs. If she was fortunate not to be chosen first, for her and the four other women, watching the first woman hang would be an extraordinary event, something that they would feel much more intensely than the audience. As they watched her struggles become desperate, they might rethink the price of this sexual high or the prize money. Each of them would know that very shortly she might have the same experience. They would imagine the same pressure of the rope on their own necks, the choking gasps for tiny sips of air, and the incredible sexual high. She had played this game twice before and she knew it was a lot different when you paid to hang yourself rather than having your family insist on entering you in the game or having a lottery at work or being voted on by the club or association membership. It was a sexual experience like no other, an hour of erotic tension and delicious uncertainty ending with an orgasm of release like she had never experienced. Afterwards, she had found it impossible to recapture the intensity of that feeling, whether it was skewered on her husband's cock or grinding her cunt against her daughter's mouth, and so she signed up again, and now again, addicted to the buzz. Of course, she knew that not all the contestants saw it as she did. Some of them had been pressured by their families, or entered a work's lottery on a whim, perhaps tempted by the excitement, and now found themselves facing undreamt of fear. She had watched them as they met their fate: the woman screaming silently in her mind, pleading not to dangle, even as the step fell away, not today. And then, as her movements slowed, as her flailing feet tired in their search for the ground, she would hope to cling on to some dignity, to hang quietly for her family, friends, the studio audience and the TV and internet audience. A woman who hung quietly at the end, without much of a struggle was admired. The audience would stand and clap and cheer the dead woman for a good show. Looking across at the other women, Marti wondered how they would respond. She thought the game shouldn't be wasted on the paid-for women with the red or black cords, at least not both rounds, maybe just the second round. She was of the opinion that contestants should pay the fee for themselves, or be randomly selected to hang when she turned forty-two via a state lottery. But in a game of chance like this one, each contestant should pay her own way. On stool four, an older woman with beautiful brown eyes and blue handcuffs around her wrists smiled at Marti. Her name was Amy. They had talked briefly backstage, and Marti felt drawn to her. Amy's bun had a pink velvet ribbon around the base of it and she mentioned that her daughter had given her the ribbon and the hairdresser had graciously put the ribbon around the bun. Her knot was like Marti's, tucked behind her left ear. Amy nodded and Marti nodded back. She wants us to be the ones to hang, Marti realized. She knows we share the bond. She felt her cunt pulse. I'd love to watch her hang, Marti thought, and then the same old question popped into her mind. "Do I really, really want to hang myself, or is it the thrill of being here a third time that I crave? One chance out of six to feel the rope bite in the first round, then higher odds at one in five to feel the rope tighten around my neck in the second round. Well, no going back now." Trudy seemed to have finished adjusting the ropes and walked back down the line to make a final check. When she got to Marti, she stopped for a moment, staring at her crotch, and then pulled a cloth from a small pocket in her plaid skirt. The eleven year-old looked up at Marti's face and smiled, and then reached out and wiped leaking cream from between her legs, bringing the dampened cloth to her mouth and kissing it gently. For a moment time seemed to stand still, and then Marti smiled down at her, as if somehow she had been blessed. A sudden fanfare startled her, followed by the booming sound of an announcer: "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to tonight's episode of.... Your Number Is Up!" Her heart started beating like a jackhammer and she fought to concentrate on her balance as the audience cheered and the noise swelled. The curtains opened slowly and the volume increased, and slowly the stage was bathed in light from distant spotlights which made the women scrunch up their eyes as they tried to adjust to the dazzle. A well dressed man ran from the darkness into the middle of the stage, his arms spread out in welcome, and once more the audience cheered as they recognised him: he was Robert Hampton, the host for tonight's game. "Hello, Cherish Valley..." he cried, his voice amplified by his cheek microphone, and the audience shouted back their response, clapping with excitement. "...and hello to our TV and internet audience where ever you are..." The audience cheered again, as if somehow trying to represent their more distant companions?" "...Welcome everyone to this month's hanging game, `Your Number Is Up'." The cheering reached a crescendo of sound, like a wall of excitement which only quietened when the host gestured with his hands. "As usual, we have six beautiful contestants today, all eager to play the game." As he recited the same words he used at the beginning of every show, he waved his arm and spotlights picked out each of the women behind him. "Two of these lovely ladies have paid their own entry fee," - loud cheers - "two have had their entry paid for by their families," - polite applause - "and two have been sponsored by their club or business," - quiet applause. He stepped forward to the edge of the stage, holding out his arms. "So if you want get to know them better, all you have to do is....?" He held his hand to his ear and the audience bellowed back, "HANG AROUND!!" before bursting out into laughter and more applause. Robert walked over to the side of stage and collected a clipboard and a microphone which seemed to have been custom made from a thin tube of stainless steel about two feet long. The reason for this only became clear as he walked over to the first contestant: because she was standing on a stool, her face was too high for a normal microphone to pick out clearly what she was saying. "Contestant number one, your name is....?" Robert asked, holding up the microphone. Over his shoulder, four spotlights suddenly turned on, one on the woman's face, one on each of her breasts, and one on her crotch, and immediately the audience cheered. Flustered, the woman swayed for a moment on her stool. "Mrs Gayla Hill from Brompton Farms," she replied nervously. "Your age and occupation is...?" prompted the host, and as he spoke intimate close-ups of the woman's body appeared on the two large studio tv screens, while a cameraman with a hand-held knelt at her feet and began to zoom in on the small gap between her thighs. "I am forty-three and a... a homemaker," she replied, glancing up at a screen, and then down at the crouching cameraman. For a moment she seemed desperate, as if she wanted to run away, but then she looked back at Robert who smiled, and her composure seemed to return. "I see that your family paid your way today," Robert continued, looking quickly at his notes. "Yes, I am proud to say they did," replied Mrs Hill as she turned slightly to show off her red handcuffs to the cameras and the audience for a moment. The host laughed patronisingly. "And I bet your family is proud of you for accepting this challenge. Tell me Gayla, are your family here today with you?" She looked quickly out into the audience, screwing up her eyes against the spotlights. "I think they are seated in front row to the right. They are very proud of the fact that I agreed to do this, and I know that they wanted to be here for the show." Robert turned around, "Could the family of this lovely lady please stand up?" Four people stood up and waved at Robert and then the audience, who in turn waved and cheered back. The cameras found them at once and zoomed in, their faces appearing on the studio screens. One of them, a boy, yelled, "We are proud of you mom!" and once more the crowd cheered in support. "Please tell the audience about your family." Gayla smiled down at them. "That's my husband Ken; he works for a mortgage company. Next is my daughter Abbie, who is seventeen and a senior at the high school..." "Abbie was recently accepted into Harvard, right?" interrupted Robert, glancing at the personal history card on his clipboard that the contestants had been required to fill out. "Yes she was Robert, she starts this fall," the woman said, her eyes glowing with pride. A close up of Abbie's face appeared on the screens and she blushed deep red as applause broke out around her. "Next is my daughter Dayna who is fourteen and a straight A student at the middle school..." "Dayna is on the Pre-teen Sexualization Committee at the middle school, right?" interrupted Robert. For a moment Danya's face appeared on the screens and was then replaced by an audience cam shot which swept down her body until it focussed on her stockinged thighs. Immediately, the studio filled with cheers and whistles, and the fourteen year-old giggled and waved. "Yes she is." Again Mrs Hill glowed with pride. "She represents her grade on the committee." "Very good" smiled Robert. "Lastly, there is my son, Ken Jr. who is nine years old and in the third grade." "Didn't Ken Jr. get a special award from the school last month?" "Yes he did Robert. He got the school superintendent award for assisting with the production and editing of cross walk safety video," Gayla said coyly. "And what else" Robert prodded. "Mrs Elders, the school principle, made him an honorary member of the school audio and video club, he can't become a full fledge member until he turns twelve," smiled Mrs Hill. "Very good," Robert cried with mock enthusiasm as he turned to the audience. "Ladies and Gentleman, let's give Mrs Hill and her family a round of applause." They duly obeyed, and as the polite clapping quietened and the family sat down, he stepped forward and, waving his arms, shouted, "That just leaves one question!" Picking up his familiar cue, the audience shouted back, "WHATYA DOIN' HANGIN' AROUND HERE?" It was the question that all the contestants knew about and prepared for, a brief explanation of why they had decided to play this dangerous game. Mrs Hill licked her lips, as if her mouth had suddenly gone dry. "Well Robert, we all decided that, what with the expense of Abbie going to Harvard and everything, it would be a fun idea if I entered the contest. If I am one of the lucky ones, $100,000 would come in very handy." She swallowed hard. "Everyone thought it would be worth the risk." For a moment there was silence as Gayla looked imploringly at her family, until Robert shouted, "Everyone put your hands together for Mrs Gayla Hills!" and the audience burst into applause. And so the pattern of the opening of the show was set: the jolly host and his catchphrases, the introduction of the contestants and their families, the revealing lights and probing cameras, and the baying audience, eager with anticipation. As the applause died down, Robert, the lights and cameras moved over to the second woman. "Contestant number two, your name is...?" "I am Mrs Betty Fram from Butte Peak," smiled the woman. Considering her circumstances, her voice seemed composed and confident. "Your age and occupation is...?" "I am forty-five and an office manager at Butte Peak Farms," Betty replied. "So you would be the one we thank for the choice cuts of meat we all enjoy?" laughed Robert and the audience took up their cue and laughed with him. "Yes," Betty giggled and then blushed as she looked up at the screen to see a close up of her smooth hairless sex. "I see that your co-workers have paid your entry fee," Robert carried on quickly. "Yes, we had a lottery at work several weeks ago and I was encouraged to put my name in," Betty replied as she too turned slightly to the camera man to show off her black handcuffs. "Is your family here today?" "Yes they are, Robert, but I can't see them with the lights," Betty said, squinting out into the audience. "Will the family of Mrs Betty Fram please stand?" asked the host and at once, a man and girl stood up in the middle of the second row and waved happily towards the cameras. "Please tell the audience about your family" smiled the host. "That is my husband, James, he works for the county roads and ground crew, and my daughter Mellisa, who is eleven years old and in fifth grade." "I understand that she is particularly happy tonight." Mrs Fram giggled. "Yes, Rob," she said. "Ever since she was seven, every week she takes me to the Cherish Valley pre-teen hanging club, and now tonight she feels as if all her birthday's have come at once!" For a moment, audience cam focused on Melissa's happy face before zooming down to capture a close-up of the gusset of her yellow panties disappearing between her young thighs, causing a chorus of cheers from the audience. "Well I hope she has a great time," said Robert hastily, spinning round to face the audience. "Everybody, make some noise for Betty and her family". Before the clapping had finished, he shouted, "And what do we ask now?" As before the crowd shouted back, their enthusiasm building: "WHATYA DOIN' HANGIN' AROUND HERE?" Betty took a deep breath before replying. "I've always enjoyed playing hanging games with my daughter, and so when my colleagues selected me to come on the show, I was really happy. If I am still here at the... end," her voice caught and she blushed and giggled, "I am going to treat my family to a holiday at Cherish Valley Sex World and..." "Mrs Betty Fram, ladies and gentleman!" Robert interrupted and Betty's last words were drowned out as the audience cheered and clapped. "Contestant number three, your name is...?" There was a clear sense of haste in the host's voice as he held up the microphone to the third woman. "I...I am Mrs Helen Baker," she said nervously, her voice only just audible. "Nothing to be nervous about Mrs Baker, we're all your friends here." Although Robert's words sounded friendly, there was a clear sense of urgency in his tone. "Your age and occupation is...?" The woman swallowed, and as she spoke, she seemed to be on the edge of tears. "I am... 43... and I am a... teller at the Fourth National Bank." She smiled weakly, her chest rising and falling with the effort of breathing, and a sheen of sweat covered her naked body. Like sharks smelling blood, the cameras zoomed in on her, tracing small drops of sweat as they ran over her breasts or down her thighs. Below her, the cameraman with the hand-held moved into position. "I see that your family has paid your entry fee for today's game." A droplet of sweat rolled slowly over her shaved mound, and in extreme close-up on the screens, stretched and dripped onto the floor. Somewhere in the audience, a woman moaned. "Yes" Helen barely replied, staring down at the ground. Her body heaved and she sobbed, sending more sweat droplets cascading down on the large screens. "Come, come, Mrs Baker," said Robert, his voice like silk, "we don't want you to feel unhappy." Except of course, we do, he thought to himself. He ignored the voice in his ear-piece telling him to speed up; commercials could wait, the end of the show could overrun; this was pay dirt. There were two types of contestants that the audience loved: the women who saw their death as a moment of flowing cum and orgasmic bliss, and those who had made a mistake and now stood petrified on their gallows stools. With the former, the audience felt an empathy that was almost spiritual; with the latter, they felt the blood lust of the bullring or the Coliseum. "Are your family here tonight?" Mrs Baker squinted into the audience and said, her voice growing quieter, "Yes, they said they would be, but I can't see them." "Will the family of Mrs Helen Baker please stand up and be recognized?" Robert called out and a family of three stood up in the middle of the third row, the audience clapping politely. "Please tell us about them," the host said, his voice at its most persuasive. The cameraman was behind her now, tracing the droplets of moisture running down her back and into the crack between her buttocks. The audience seemed mesmerised and one or two sets of fingers began to fumble under clothing. For a few moments she just stood staring, as if trying to remember their names, and her body started to tremble. "That is my husband Bennie," she whispered at last. "He works for school board..." "Please speak up Mrs Baker," Robert said smiling, as he held the microphone to her mouth. "Next is my son Josh, he's sixteen and a junior at the high school..." Helen said a little louder. "Josh was recently recognized for some good work at the church, wasn't he?" Again there was a long pause as she tried to drag her mind to the question. "Yes he was... he... he organized a youth group at the church... which provides an outlet for young teens to study the bible and... to put into practice some of the..." She seemed to grind to a halt, and then sobbed loudly. "What about your younger son?" Robert said, trying to move the woman on. "He is Ben junior," she said at last. "He is fourteen. He is a member of the Chief of Police junior policemen association..." "And what exactly does the association do?" asked Robert. She seemed to stare out at her son, and when she spoke there was an edge to her voice. "Ben rides with an officer for several hours a week learning what the role of a police officer is in the community." She paused. "It was his idea to enter my name for the show." The boy's face appeared on the video screens, and as soon as he saw it, he grinned and waved energetically at the camera. "Excellent, Mrs Baker. Now that wasn't very hard was it?" Robert asked. "No," replied Helen almost inaudibly as her head dropped and she stared at the ground. "And of course there is only one more question to be asked, which is....?" "WHATYA DOIN' HANGIN' AROUND HERE?" Robert held the microphone close to Mrs Baker's mouth and was met at first by silence, but then suddenly she became more animated. "I shouldn't really be here," she said loudly, pleadingly. "I never wanted to, but Ben persuaded the others and entered my name. He thinks it's just a joke." She paused, and then continued desperately, "I don't deserve to hang. Don't you understand, I'm not like these other women..." There was a gasp from the audience and Helen fell silent. "Let's give a big round of applause for Mrs Helen Baker and her family". There was a smattering of clapping very little enthusiasm. Contestants whose family had paid their entry fee against their will were never really enthusiastic about the game, and Helen's final comment just seemed to confirm that. Robert turned and faced the audience. "Now it's time for a word from our sponsors," he smiled. "But don't worry, we'll be back in no time to meet the other contestants. So why don't you...?" He put his hand to his ear and the audience yelled, "HANG AROUND!!" With a musical fanfare, the curtains were lowered to the stage and beyond them the highlights of previous shows began playing on the big screens. Robert turned around facing the contestants. "Relax ladies, everything is going well and there is no need to be nervous. Remember, try to win over the audience with your enthusiasm and if you make it through this evening you'll have fan base of followers. We try and make this as painless as possible for you." He turned to Mrs Baker. "Mrs Baker, you must try to be more engaged in the show, or the audience are going to take against you. Try to show them that you are really happy to be here." "But I'm not!" Now that the curtain was down, she had lost her timidity and her voice was angry. "I shouldn't be here! I'm not after some ridiculous thrill like one of these stupid people. Don't you understand, it's a mistake!" "Two minutes, Mr Hampton," said a voice from the side of the stage. "Well you're here now, and you will just have to make the best of it," he said, turning and walking of the side of the stage, to be replaced at once by the stage attendant who began to walk along the row, checking that the contestants were ok. Marti stared angrily at Helen Baker, who was now sobbing again, staring at her feet. How could she be so stupid, so insensitive? She might have made a mistake, or even have been signed up against her will, but she had no right to insult the other contestants, or to dismiss the erotic delight of what they were doing. She found herself wishing that the woman's number came up, not simply because she was such a bitch, but also because she could then understand the power of that final breathless orgasm. Trudy moved in front of Marti and for a moment looked up at her in silence. "Are you thirsty?" she asked quietly. Marti suddenly realised she was and nodded. "I'm not allowed to give you anything to drink," the girl said, "but I can moisten your lips." Marti nodded and saw the girl's hand move downwards and out of sight, returning moments later, the tips of her fingers glistening. She painted them softly along Marti's lips and smiled. "I hope you get what you want: whatever it is, I want you to take my taste with you." Marti licked her lips sensually. "Thank you," she whispered. There was a sudden flurry of activity. A voice announced, "Thirty seconds," and Robert walked back onto the stage, still being fussed over by make-up. Beyond the curtain, the show's theme music started to play and the cheers of anticipation grew louder. Robert moved up to the curtain and watched the producer count down, 5-4-3... and then the curtain opened slowly to loud applause. "Welcome back everyone, and if you're only just joining us..." Robert held his hand to his ear. "WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN!?" "Right let's get on. We've already met the first three gorgeous ladies, time to meet the other three." He walked across to the fourth gallows and held up his microphone to the mouth of the woman standing there. She was not tall, but she clearly kept her body in good condition, a fact exploited by the intrusive cameras; she looked mature and wore a determined smile. "Contestant number four, your name is..?" "Mrs Amy Green of Pleasant Hill," replied the woman. "That sounds a pleasant place to live," a groan from the audience, "where is it located?" "We are located in the southwestern confederation of states," Mrs Green replied at once a cheer went up in a section of the audience. As the camera scanned the studio, a small group of people with flags stood up and waved. "Well it looks like you are going to get some support tonight, Amy. Your age and occupation is..?" "I am forty-seven and a stay at home mom also." Amy smiled with that same determined grin as she tried not to let her nervousness show. "I see that you have the blue handcuffs," Robert said, turning towards the audience as he did so, and the studio erupted in applause. "Yes, Robert, I paid my entry fee," Amy replied and she turned slightly to show the camera man and the audience her red handcuffs. "Is your family here today?" "Yes she is, just my daughter," beamed Amy, looking into the audience. "Will the daughter of Mrs Green please stand for the audience?" A teenager stood up in the middle of the second row waving at the audience, wearing the same determined smile as her mother. "Your daughter is a very pretty girl, Mrs Green. Tell us something about her." "Her name is Cari and she sixteen and a junior in high school." "Is there a Mr. Green?" "No, sadly my husband past away last year, Robert," Amy said looking down at the floor, and the audience let out a collective sigh of sympathy. "We are sorry to hear that." He paused and then picked up the tone. "So what do you plan with the prize money if you make through both rounds?" "Well, like Mrs Hill, I plan to set aside the money for Cari's college fund." "Very good," smiled Robert and the audience clapped, partly because of what she said, but more because at that moment, the hand-held camera zoomed in on the glimmering sheen of arousal that was beginning to coat the woman's thighs. "Well Amy," said Robert, picking up on the audience's distraction, "I can tell that you are excited to be here, so that leaves just one more question..." "WHATYA DOIN' HANGIN' AROUND HERE?" Mrs Green glanced up at the screen and blushed heavily, but she still did not lose her determined smile. "I can't deny that going home with the money for my daughter's college fund would be wonderful, but that is not the only reason." She paused, collecting her thoughts. "There is something so wonderfully erotic about hanging from the end of a rope, about being so close to death. Ever since she was old enough to hold a rope, Cari and I have played hanging games, in pre-teen clubs or at home. She and I have discussed me entering the show many times, and we know what the consequences might be, but this is like her gift to me, to experience that ultimate excitement." For a moment there was silence, and then a wall of cheering and clapping as the audience responded to Amy's words: she was just the sort of contestant they wanted. As the clamour died down Robert had reached the fifth contestant, a well proportioned woman whose most immediate distinguishing feature were her large breasts. This was already displayed in close-up on the screens, causing a hum of whispered comments and suppressed giggles in the audience. "Contestant number five, your name is..?" he asked. "Hello, Robert and Cherish Valley, I am Mrs Gillian Turner from the Northern Plain states," the woman beamed cheerfully. "What is your age and occupation, Mrs Turner?" "I am forty-one years old and I work a pet shop. We cater for all sorts of animals and anyone can bring one along." The murmuring in the audience grew, and some of the kids in the audience started making animal sounds. The giggling grew until one lone voice shouted out, "Do you sell very hairy pussies?" and the whole audience seemed to explode into laughter. "Now, now, please let's keep a sense of decorum here," admonished Robert eventually, and tried to get back to the interview. "So what do you do working in pet shop?" "Well, owners of male dogs can leave their pets off at the kennel to be cleaned and groomed," blushed Mrs Turner. "It is not high end work but it does pay pretty good, and some of those dogs come with.... fringe benefits." "Yes, yes, I'm sure. I see though that you have pink handcuffs. Please tell the audience about that." "Yes, there are five of us at the pet store so we pooled our money and each month one of us is chosen for the game," Mrs Turner continued happily, seemingly unaware that everyone was laughing at her. "I see, so has the game had the good fortune of hanging one of your co-workers yet?" "Not yet, Robert." "So what do you and you co-workers want to do with the money you win?" "We want to stash away the money for our retirement." "That seems like a good idea," Robert continued hastily. "Are your co-workers and family are here in the audience?" "Only my co-workers and friends are, Robert, my family... couldn't make it," Mrs Turner replied. "They..." "Will the friends and co-workers of Mrs Turner please stand up?" The host interrupted, and a group of five women stood up on the left side of the first row of seats, all of them waving to the audience. "And these five lovely friends of yours in the audience also work for the pet shop?" Robert said pointing out to the audience. "Um, yes, they do, well, three of them do, the other two women are teachers at our middle school," Mrs. Turner stammered. "OK, so let's get to that last question..." "WHATYA DOIN' HANGIN' AROUND HERE?" "Well, Robert, I can't think of much to say. I was the lucky one to be selected and I'm just having fun and of course the money will be nice. People ask how I would feel if my number came up, but I know that won't happen to me. Things like that don't happen to me." The applause for Mrs Turner was thin, but strangely seemed to grow as Robert approached the sixth contestant, until it became a wall of sound. "I think they remember you, Marti," Robert said, "but just in case there is anyone who doesn't know, your name is..? "My name is Mrs Marti Allen from the West Coast counties." As soon as she spoke, she found the same excitement building in her stomach and her loins, something that hadn't been missed by the hand-held camera. "And your age and occupation is?" "I am forty-two years old and work as an attorney in the public defender's office," Marti said, still smiling because of the pleasure that seemed to flow through her. "This is your third time here, right?" asked Robert, and before she could answer, the audience broke into spontaneous applause. "Our TV and studio audience, I am sure, will want to know what keeps bringing you back to the game? Is it the money or the thrill?" "Not so much the money, although that is a nice bonus, but I think the thrill of the game is what excites me most." There was a flutter of laughter from the audience and Marti instinctively glanced at the large screen: her cunt was framed in extreme close-up, its smooth shaved flesh glistening with her cream. She blushed, and then giggled softly. "I think we all remember just how excited you get, Marti," Robert chuckled. "I also see that like before, you have the blue handcuffs." "Yes, I believe that a woman should pay her own way for the right to be in the game," Marti replied to yet more cheers and applause. "We have already met your family. Are they here tonight?" "Yes they are here" "Will the family of Mrs Marti Allen please stand?" A family of three stood up on the far left side of the second row and waved, and the audience clapped ecstatically. "Can you quickly remind us about them?" "My husband there is an attorney for the office of the government communications, my daughter, Misti, is seventeen years old and a senior in high school." "Tell a little about what Misti does?" urged the host. "Misti works in the school administration office for extra credit as social media coordinator for the principle." "Kind of like a press person then?" Marti felt a moment of annoyance at so many questions, but she tried not to let it show in her reply. "Exactly, she works closely with Mrs Birch, the principle of the school, coordinating the media message the school wants to convey." "Very good, and your other daughter?" smiled Robert. "My other daughter, Nicki, is fourteen years old and an ninth grader, and she is a propaganda coordinator for the church youth group for the west coast counties." "I'm sure many of our viewers wonder how your family feel about your third appearance on the show." "They are wonderful, Robert. They know how much all of this means to me, and they have supported me from the very beginning." The host turned towards the audience and cupped his ear. "WHATYA DOIN' HANGIN' AROUND HERE? "As you know, I have been on the show twice already, but I came back again because the money on its own didn't seem enough. I can't explain it any better than Amy did. I just know that I want to experience that final thrill, and that each time I come back, I am closer to reaching it. I find that unbelievably exciting." Marty stopped, almost breathless, and smiled sheepishly as the audience stood and applauded her. Robert stood back without interrupting, and it was only when a loud fanfare sounded that the clapping stopped and people resumed their seats. As Robert strode towards the front of the stage, the atmosphere in the auditorium seemed suddenly to change, moving from noisy excitement to a sort of reverence, as if something very important was about to happen. The audience hushed and were still, and the lights dimmed until only the small apron of the stage containing Robert and the six contestants was lit. In the background, an ongoing drum roll added to the tension. Suddenly a spotlight lit an area at the side of the stage and in it, appearing as if by magic, stood a large electronic machine covered in colorful flashing lights and topped off by a large glass bowl. "As a formality to our six contestants and an explanation of the game to our viewing audience, I will go over the rules." Robert walked slowly to the machine, his voice was more somber now, as if he was in church. "The lottery machine," he said, pointing at the glass bowl, "holds six golf balls, numbered one to six. Each ball is perfectly balanced, of the same weight and dimensions. When I push this button on the glass bowl, air will rush in and mix the balls together. After twenty seconds the air flow will increase and one of the numbered golf balls will pop up to the top, which why we call the game, `Your Number Is Up'". Robert paused dramatically, letting the tension build, and all eyes were on him. Even the women had shuffled round slightly on their stools to watch him. "Once a number has been randomly selected, the contestant with the corresponding number will step off her stool, causing it to retract into the floor. She can step back onto the stool if she wants but that will just prolong things: the stool will not stop. This is one of the hallowed, erotic moments of our show, to watch the contestant struggling in her death throes, to see the poise and elegance of her struggles and to share with her the orgasmic ecstasy of her passing." "When she has finally stopped struggling and the applause quiets down we will then have a commercial break after which I will push the button on the glass bowl again. Air will rush in and mix the balls a second time and again after twenty seconds the air flow will increase and a second golf ball will pop to the top of the bowl. The second contestant with the corresponding number will step off her stool and she will also hang. The four remaining contestants will be paid for entering the game. It is the prize money that these contestants have come to win, otherwise, why hang yourself?" The audience laughed and clapped at hearing this sudden relief in the building tension. Robert looked around the stage. "Ladies," he announced, "the time has now come, that moment you have all been waiting for. Some of you will be looking forward to it, some of you won't." He paused. "Please prepare yourselves." The audience could hear the nervous shuffling of bare feet on the stools. The cameras showed that several of the contestants were trembling and all were breathing faster now, a light sheen of perspiration highlighting the rise and fall of their breasts. The drum roll returned, louder this time, and Robert announced the names of the contestants one more time: as he called each name, the woman's face appeared on the large screens."Our contestants for tonight's game are: number 1, Gayla Hill; number 2, Betty Fram; number 3, Helen Baker; number 4, Amy Green; number 5 Gillian Turner; and number 6, Marti Allen. Marti felt the strange thrill that she had felt twice before, and her heart beating in her chest. She took a deep breath and glanced at the other women: like her, when their names were called, they stood straight on their stools, all that is except Helen Baker, whose head hung low with tears streaming down her face. Even at such a moment as this, Marti felt a twinge of anger that she should behave so badly: this was supposed to be a family fun show, a wholesome game of chance where you won or lost everything with dignity. Robert let his finger hover above the button on the glass bowl while the drum roll intensified and the screens flashed pictures of the women's nervous faces. After what seemed like an age, he pressed it, the machine whirred and flash and hummed, and he stepped back several feet. The audience waited in tense silence as the auditorium filled with the sound of the rushing air and the clinking sound of the golf balls hitting the side of the glass bowl as they were mixed. The twenty seconds seemed to last forever, Marti thought, but then the air flow got louder, pushing the golf balls higher in the glass bowl. Suddenly, there was a loud pop as the first golf ball rose to the top of the bowl and shut the air flow off. Marti and five women on stage all leaned forward slightly on their stools, straining to see the number on the golf ball, and the audience imitated them, leaning forward in their seats or standing up trying to get a better look at the glass bowl. With deliberate slowness, Robert walked up to the glass bowl and pulled the golf ball off the top. Holding it so that nobody else could see the number, he read it, and then looked up at the anxious women. "And the number is...." He looked up again, and then over at the audience. The whole auditorium was quiet; you could hear a pin drop. "Two," he announced. There was a sudden fanfare, a collective gasp from the audience and sighs of relief from all the contestants - except for Mrs Betty Fram. Marti, the other contestants, the audience and the TV cameras all focused on Betty. She looked completely shocked, for a moment just staring into the empty space in front of her. Tears were already forming in the corners of her eyes, but she seemed to somehow pull herself together and turned and smiled bravely at the camera and the audience. Recognizing her position and the dignity of her response, the studio applauded loudly to show their appreciation. "Is there anything you want to say before you step of the stool," Robert said solemnly, like a priest. Betty turned shakily back to the audience and licked suddenly dry lips. "I'd like some water please, and a minute to think," she said, unable to hide the tremble in her voice. "I'm sorry Mrs Fram, but that is prohibited prior to your hanging." Betty's breathing seemed to become more rapid and nodded her head in acknowledgement. It silence fell in the auditorium until only Betty's rapid panting could be heard. Marti tried to imagine what Betty was thinking and wondered if shortly she would be having the same thoughts. Final thoughts. As she watched the dark haired woman mentally prepare herself for her hanging, she felt her sexual arousal grow powerfully within her. On her stool, Betty fought to gain control. She stretched her shoulders over and over until eventually she was able to take slow and deliberate breaths. She seemed more at ease as if she had come to terms with her fate. She even remembered her disappointment earlier when the attendant told her that her hands must be behind her back: when she played out her hanging fantasies with her daughter, her hands were always tied down low in front, making it easy to touch herself, but that wouldn't be possible now. Robert stood back, watching her prepare. He had been careful to give Betty all the time she needed: he and his sponsors knew the audience and the TV viewers fed on the anticipation; it was what made the ratings so good for the game, so he was prepared to let the audience enjoy the woman's mental preparations. However, he also had to keep to the timetable, and time was getting on. He moved slightly into Betty's eye-line and got her attention. His eyes held hers for a very long time and her breathing quickened again, as she realized the moment was here. "Let us know when you're ready Mrs Fram to step off your stool." His voice was gentle, inviting. She smiled and looked over at her daughter. "I will do it now." She stepped off first with her left foot then picked up her right. There was a slight clicking sound and the stool begun to retract and with and with it came the sudden understanding that this was for real. She quickly stepped back on the stool and looked over at her friends and family and tears started in her eyes. The stool continued its unstoppable journey until it had fully retracted into the floor and now her unsupported weight caused the pressure of the noose to quickly change. From a comfortably tight caress it became a vice pressing hard around her neck and into her throat. It hurt a little, but not unbearably, in fact the effect was even more sensuous than she'd expected. She could feel little parts inside her throat begin to bend and buckle and she made a liquid sound, between gurgling and choking. The warmth in her crotch was rising and her feet pawed back and forth in a running motion just barely touching the floor, as her body swung gently back and forth. Then Betty held her body remarkably still, her head held rigid to one side, eyes open and responsive, only her feet pawing and her fingers clenching. It was a classic, erotic pose that she had practiced time and time with her daughter at hanging club, and now she displayed it to the audience and the cameras: a naked woman willingly hanging by her neck, hands bound behind her, staring bravely forward as she shared the sexual tension with family and friends and strangers. As they heard her constant soft gagging the onlookers were reminded of the price she was paying for this sexual tension, and many of them rose to applaud her. Some of the men and boys stood and took their pants down and their cocks out. Suddenly, Betty's eleven year-old daughter Melisa stood up, yelling, "Way to go mom, show `em how it's done!" She managed to move her head a little and seemed to smile back, refusing to give in to panic even though she understood the reality: the noose would slowly become tighter and tighter until it crushed her throat: whatever happened she could not let Melissa down. Most of the audience were now standing, the men and boys gripping their cocks and the women and girls rubbing themselves with wild abandon. Marti gazed at her in genuine awe, at her strength and concentration. She was so thankful to have the chance to see the dark haired woman hanging herself, and she felt hot and wet and more aroused than she had ever felt before. She pressed her thighs together, trying to answer the tingling she felt, and wondered, if this was how she felt just from watching, how much more aroused must Betty feel. Marti sucked in a breath, and watched the woman's chest work trying to do the same, her breasts jiggling with the effort, but it was easy to tell from the rasps that only a little bit of air was making it through. "That little bit of air should be enough," she thought. "The knot was in the right place to give her a nice long swing for the audience and TV viewers before her throat closed." She glanced over at the audience and saw the same lust in their eyes as she felt: some gazed open mouthed at the hanging woman, some were already applauding, and some, too carried away by the eroticism, were already masturbating. She looked over at her family and smiled: Nicki, her youngest daughter, had her hand under her dress, and even at this distance, she could make out the rhythmic movement of her fingers. Marti wished for a second she was with her, touching her, tasting her, but then her thoughts and her gaze went back to Betty. She was hopeful that Betty must certainly reach a final throes, the most deeply felt climax a woman could ever have, but wondered, as she had before, watching other women hang, whether there was a moment afterwards when she would begin to regret her decision for playing the game of chance. Betty's eyes were wider now and the look on her face was one of yearning. Her lips were moving as she choked out some sounds, but from where she was, Marti couldn't tell what she was trying to say. Her hips were bucking a little, with a definite rhythm, and as the rhythm grew, Betty's legs started to "bicycle" kick, a sure sign of an impending climax. Men and boys were yelling and cheering as they pulled their cocks. Almost at once, things changed for Betty. Her whole body was shaking as if it were in the throes of an almighty orgasm, until the noose finally cut deep into her neck. No air could reach her lungs. No sounds came from her throat. Her time for dangling on the rope for her family and the audience was over and as if she realized this, her legs began to kick out strongly, in a scissor kick motion trying desperately to reach solid ground. As she thrashed, her eyes squeezed shut then snapped open, again and again. They were bulging now, her kicking became more frantic, almost manic, and the tendons in her arms stood out as she tried to free her wrists. Her expression showed the realization had arrived and her chest heaved and heaved, but she found no relief. It was the moment that the audience anticipated the most, that moment when the woman pivoted from life to death, and their appreciation and arousal was profound: men and women moaned as they found release, and pre-teens screamed as they came, either by their own hands, or at the hands of their mothers or fathers. The heat in Marti's loins grew, also as she watched the dying woman. She knew that Betty would be feeling her chest wanting to explode and thought that the pain in her lungs must be exquisite. Seeing her kick back and forth that way, fighting against it, was the most exciting of all. She wanted very badly to touch Betty, to confirm with her fingers and her mouth that the woman had indeed had that most exquisite of orgasms. She wanted to help her through this, hold her as she struggled, feel Betty's muscles finally stiffen as she willingly gave up her life for a game of chance. But as Betty kicked and swung at the end of the noose Marti could only watch, squeezing her thighs together as her excitement grew and lathered on her thighs. Eventually Betty's kicking slowed: maybe her strength was gone, or maybe the urgent need for air had passed and she found herself beyond pain. Every few seconds she blinked. Her tongue protruded from her mouth. Her head couldn't move, but her eyes seemed to turn to her friends and family. With great effort, Betty's tongue very slowly circled her lips, a last gesture for them which moved Marty so much that, before she realized it, she came. Betty's face was soon a deep purple and her eyes stood out in vivid contrast, still blinking and shifting occasionally, still conscious. Her only other movement was the odd jerk or spasm. The auditorium was now completely silent for a time, the audience rapt. It was only when Betty's eyes turned to glass that they understood. Her body shook for a few seconds with convulsions then hung silently, gently swinging back and forth. For a little while there was silence, as if the swaying body had cast some sort of spell, a single clap was all it took to release and avalanche of clapping and cheering. Some yelled their approval - "Good Show", "That was awesome!" - others stood and turned towards Betty's family and thundered their support. The family waved back, and young Melissa jumped up and down, her pride in her mother written all over her face. It was only when the applause began to die down that the sobbing could be heard: on stage, Mrs Helen Baker was crying deep, body shaking sobs. It was often the case that after the first hanging other contestants sometimes regretted their decisions to enter, especially those entered by their families, but everyone knew the etiquette of the show: it was insulting and disrespectful to cry out loud, and doing so demeaned the effort and sacrifice of the woman who had just hung. Along with the audience, Marti gasped at Mrs Baker's insensitive behavior. She glanced around at the others and although Mrs Gayla Hill looked very anxious, none of them were crying: only Helen Baker. One or two of the crowd began to murmur their disapproval, and others hissed and sensing trouble, Robert walked quickly to the front of the stage. "Thank you for your tribute to Betty Fram, Ladies and Gentlemen. Now we will have a commercial break. We will be back with you shortly, but in the meantime, here are a few moments that we managed to capture on the audience cams." Almost at once, the lights softened and the curtain was drawn across the stage. As soon as the curtains closed, several women from the make-up department came out on stage. "Ladies, ladies, your attention please, we have to fix your make up for the next round," the older woman said as several older looking girls came out holding make up equipment followed by several stage hands carrying step ladders. The ladders were quickly set up next to each contestant "Ladies, these girls are from the cosmetology beauty class. Please cooperate with them in the applying of your make-up because we do not have much time." All the contestants were somber: Betty's lifeless body, hanging next to them as they waited for the girls to began applying more make-up, was a constant reminder of the chance they took. "Aren't they going to remove her body?" sobbed Mrs Baker as a teen tried to repair her mascara. "No Mrs Baker, the body stays hanging for the duration of the game," replied the teen as she applied the mascara. "It is the custom." Mrs Baker cried even harder. "But it's gross!" she wailed, looking around for support. "It is done out of respect!" Marti said angrily, unable to contain her feelings any longer. "Mrs Fram was willing to risk her life for her family and we should leave her undisturbed until the end of the show." For a moment, Helen stared back at her and then dropped her head. "Please, Mrs Baker, stop your crying," pleaded the make-up teen. "You are a grown woman, and you're making your mascara streak. Now we'll will have to work twice as hard to re-apply it." Marti watched her and wondered what she was doing there anyway. She still seethed at the way the woman was trying to destroy the sanctity of the game, and it was only when the teen arrived to do her make-up that she began to calm down. When it was complete, she took deep breaths and tried to relax. She wondered if Trudy would come onto the stage again, but when she looked in the wings, she couldn't see her and felt unexpectedly disappointed. Beyond the curtains, the audience were watching explicit clips taken from the audience cams while Mrs Fram was hanging, cheering occasionally when they recognized themselves or, most popular of all, when a pre-teen was captured on 'cuntcam'. The producers had noticed recently that rather than be embarrassed when filmed masturbating, pre-teen girls seemed to go out of their way to draw attention to themselves, often getting their mothers to join in. They didn't see this as a problem: audience cams and 'cuntcam' attracted sponsors who were willing to pay whatever it took to get their names on the screens. As before, as the break came to an end, there was a final flurry of activity. A voice announced, "Fifteen seconds," and Robert walked back onto the stage, taking his place near the lottery machine. Beyond the curtain, the show's theme music started to play and the cheers of excitement grew louder. The producer counted down with his fingers and then, to another great fanfare the curtain opened slowly. As before, the contestants were met with a wall of sound, but this time, Marti noticed something extra, something from her experience on previous shows she was expecting: the smell of sex. Like an invisible mist it rolled over the stage, a heady, arousing smell of cunt and cum which seemed to almost overpower the senses. "Welcome back," Robert said into the microphone with a chuckle as he looked out into the auditorium, "and I am delighted to see that many of you have been making yourself more comfortable!" The audience laughed delightedly and the cameras swept across them, revealing many in various states of undress and arousal. "I don't know about you, but I was bowled over by Betty's wonderful display, and now, we're now ready for round two." The audience clapped and cheered, swept away with lust and enthusiasm. On the stage, the five nervous women were shining with sweat. They'd had more time than they wanted during the commercial break to think about what would happen next and Betty's body just ever so gently swinging back and forth from the breeze was a constant reminder of what could happen next. Marti brought her thoughts to the present. Her heart pounded. She looked across at the others and knew that Gayla and Helen were not here for the same reason as she was. Had they all came for the money? Or did their family need the money? Hanging yourself was a very big risk for a game of chance, but it was also a very big reward for their family. She thought of herself, Amy and Gillian as risk takers. If her own number wasn't called today, she'd like to see Amy hang: something told her that Amy would hang with dignity, and that she would respect the spirit of the contest. Today, she'd already seen a willing woman hang beautifully for the audience and the TV viewers; to see that happen to someone dreading her own self-hanging would be very different. If she was unlucky, she thought, perhaps she would enter again next month. The host's voice brought Marti out of her thoughts and she focused again. "Okay, here we go!" Robert had moved over to the machine and now he pushed the button to begin the next selection. He stepped away a few feet as air rushed into the glass bowl and the five golf balls started clinking around inside. As before, the audience fell silent, and all of the women were quivering on stage as they stared at the glass bowl. After another very long twenty seconds another stronger rush of air whooshed into the glass bowl and pushed the golf balls higher, and then suddenly one popped to the top and the rush of air and clinking of balls stopped. The five women and the audience leaned forward together, straining to see the number on the golf ball, but the glass bowl was designed to obscure it until it was removed. With dramatic care, Robert reached out and pulled the golf ball from its nest, and stood studying it. After what seemed like an age, he looked up and the drum roll began for a second time. Behind him on the monitors, the strained anxious faces of the five women appeared in close-up, one after the other. "And the number is..." Apart from the drum roll, the auditorium was completely silent. "...SIX!" Marti felt the word like a slap in the face and her heart leapt into her throat. Time slowed to a crawl. Every detail and sound suddenly became sharper. She saw Robert smiling kindly at her, and heard the audience gasp and the other contestants sigh with relief, and the reality struck her: they would get paid today whereas she... She looked at the other women on their stools, knowing now that they would again get a close up view of a woman willingly hanging herself. Their nooses kept them erect as they looked back at Marti, relief written all over their faces, and four of them smiled at her with a mixture of sympathy and respect: only Helen Baker, smiling broadly, was oblivious to her plight. "Is there anything you want to say?" It took Marti a moment to register Robert's question. Like Betty before her, her breathing was very rapid now and she tried hard to get it under control, but it wasn't easy, knowing what was coming. Scanning the audience slowly, making eye contact with many of them, she thought for a minute and suddenly an idea came to her. "Yes, I do," she said. "Now that I've been randomly chosen, I'm not really sure I want to hang today. No woman can be really sure until she is standing up here. I'm getting these thoughts that tell me I want to survive and play the game another day, to have a little more time." She paused. "But this is the most exciting thing that's ever happened to me. And I know that if I thought about it I wouldn't have the courage to pay my own entry fee again, and I know the game officials would never let me change my mind. So I'm ready to hang myself, and I hope I hang as well as Betty Fram." It was what the audience wanted to hear and they clapped and cheered. She looked at her family and her daughters yelled out, "Way to go mom, we're proud of you!" "Thank you girls," she smiled, and then looked at Robert, "but I have a request." The crowd quietened a little, eager to hear what she was going to say. "When you introduced us to the viewing audience, you gave us the chance to say why we were here, but you never really asked what drove each of us to end up on this stage, and how we feel now that we are here." "The reason's why each woman plays the game is unimportant," replied the host. "The fact is each contestant voluntarily plays the game, so makes no difference as to the reason." "Then for my own curiosity, may I ask the other women if they entered today for the money or because their secret desires got the better of them and they wanted to experience the game?" For as moment, Robert held his finger against his ear piece. "Sure why not, I see no harm in that," he gestured, thinking to himself that it would be excellent for the ratings. Marti turned carefully to the other four women on the stage and the audience followed her gaze, absorbed now in this unusual development. "Gayla, why did your family enter you for today's game?" asked Marti. "My family needs the money," Mrs Hill said quietly. "We saw no other way to be able to raise this amount of money in short amount of time. I was lucky in that the computer randomly selected me rather quickly, and I was willing to take the risk for my family," she replied. "I must admit, I was a little bit curious, but that still doesn't mean I like the thought of standing here with a noose around my neck." Marti turned to Mrs Green. "Amy?" "I'm like you, I think. I wanted to feel the thrill of the game, the randomness of it all. I had heard about the sexual high that a woman hanging herself gets and I see that is true after watching Betty," Amy replied. "I wanted to do something daring, something different to my hum-drum life. I had the money so I took the chance on the game." Marti nodded. "I agree, that is why I have entered the game twice, just for the thrill of the randomness. Mrs Turner how about you?" "Well, we had a drawing at the pet store after the game last month and I lost or won depending on how you look at it. I willingly entered the draw knowing that I could be standing here, but I have to admit, I was very frightened afterwards and regretted my decision. Now that I am here, I am still frightened, but I also understand why you and Amy find it sexually exciting and I am going to encourage the women at the pet store to enter the game," Mrs Turner smiled, and immediately, her five coworkers and friends stood up and clapped loudly. Having deliberately left her until last, Marti turned slightly to look at Mrs Helen Baker. She had a different answer, and when she spoke she seemed to have recovered her self-confidence and assertiveness. "I am here for the money, not for the sexual thrill like these other women or yourself. If I'm honest with you I don't see how any self-respecting woman can just... just hang herself for the thrill of it. It seems to me weird and perverted and this whole game is stupid." There was an audible gasp from the audience, but Helen was too focused on what she was saying to notice. "Anyway, I feel sorry for you Mrs Allen, of course, but I don't find any of this in the least bit exciting and to be frank, watching you hang won't change my mind. Now that I've won the money, all I want to do is get out of this dreadful place as soon as possible." The studio was still, watching Mrs Baker in a stunned silence and Marti felt her legal training kicking in. "So if you despise this show so much, why did you let your family enter you in the first place?" asked Marti. Helen frowned. "I think I explained before," she said contemptuously, "that my son persuaded the family to enter me." "Yes you did, but what you didn't explain is why you didn't just say no?" For the first time the woman looked unsettled. "Well... my sons persuaded my husband that I should be entered, and he paid the fee without telling me." She was looking down at the floor now, avoiding Marti's eyes. "Why did your sons do that, Helen? Why should your sons get you entered without telling you?" "Some nonsense!" she said angrily. "They said I was a bad mother and needed to be punished." she glared out into the audience at her family and shouted, "Well I hope your happy now! You've put me through this horrible, terrifying ordeal and I've got you the money you wanted! Not such a bad mother now, am I?" Marti waited for Helen to calm down. "Do you have any respect for the women who play this game, Mrs Baker?" she asked quietly. The question caught the woman before her anger had left her and she looked over and spat bitterly, "Good God no! You're all stupid sluts to me!" It was only after the words had left her mouth that she sensed the waves of silent hostility coming from the auditorium. Marti was silent for a few moments, leaving the woman to stew. She felt complete contempt for her, not simply because she had no respect for the game, but more because she didn't understand the risks that contestants took to tread that tightrope between fear and ecstasy; instead she insulted them and belittled them. Marti knew what she had to do: she owed it to herself and to Betty. Looking at Robert, she said, "I have watched Mrs Helen Baker's undignified behavior throughout the show so far, and now I have had to listen to her insult the contestants. I think she needs the opportunity to redeem herself, and I have a suggestion." Every eye focused on her in the silent studio. "I want you to turn the glass bowl on one more time and let a golf ball pop up. If Mrs Turner, Mrs Hill, or Mrs Green's number is picked, just set it aside and I will hang myself. But if Mrs Baker's number is picked, have her hang first, because I want to watch her swing and see if she can capture the same dignity and courage as Betty Fram. Afterwards, I will hang myself as I have promised to do." She paused and saw Mrs Baker staring at her with wide, disbelieving eyes. "I am not suggesting this to be vindictive, but because of the dignity and respect that the game and its players deserve. I know the rules of the game: you can do what I suggest because I volunteered myself to be hanged, without reservation. Besides, the viewing audience might get to see three women hang for the price of two." Whispered conversations in the audience grew louder as people talked about the idea and were quickly replaced by growing applause. For the first time in the show, Robert looked taken aback as his fingers pressed his earpiece into his ear. "Well, um, ah, let's take a short commercial break while I confer with the judges and the rules committee for an official ruling," was all he could say. With that the stage lights dimmed and the curtain came down on the stage. The normal relaxed attitude back stage had gone and admin and studio personnel were rushing about looking anxious. Robert was the hunched over a microphone at the side of the stage talking animatedly with some studio boss, and the producer was shouting for someone to put more video tapes on the large screens. "What the fuck are you doing, you slut?" scowled Helen. "I won, you lost! You can't do this to me." "The hell I can't," Marti hissed, "it's in the game rule book. Not that you have any respect for the game, do you, bitch! You have NO respect for the sexual thrill of the game or the people who take part in it. You need to learn what it's really like to take part; you need to understand all those people you've insulted." For a moment the two stared at each other, until Amy Green spoke. "Mrs Allen... Marti, I agree with you, that Helen doesn't have respect for the game, but she took her chances with the glass bowl the same as you and I and you lost. I know she doesn't deserve to win, but... well, she did." "That's right, Marti, I took my chances, and I won, damn it, so what gives you the right to do this to me," Helen added, her voice rising. "Fuck you, Helen Baker!" Marti shouted back at her. "Now you've won your money, you don't give a damn about any of the women here. I want the machine to turn on again and I want to see you swing!" "Keep it down," a voice called from the side, "the audience will hear you!" Gayla Hill joined the debate. "Look Marti," she said softly, "if the rules committee agrees with this, it will be something that has never happened in the game before. Damn it, the fucking feminists might get the government to cancel the show! Just think what that would mean!" "I don't care what the fucking feminists or government says or does. I am going to hang myself anyway, so to me it doesn't matter," Marti said. "I know that seems selfish, but I can't step off this stool without doing something to put things right!" "But Marti," pleaded Mrs Turner, "you can't change the rules in the middle of the game. You can't have three draws when only two are called for." "I am not changing the rules in the middle of the game, I am using the rules to my advantage, and that advantage is to see that bitch swing." She fixed her eyes on Mrs Baker. "Isn't that the reason why your family paid your entry fee, Helen?" yelled Marti, wishing that somehow her question would get through the curtains and the noise so that the Baker family could hear it. "No," Helen replied weakly. "Your family wants to see you swing don't they, Helen?" prodded Marti, acting the lawyer again. "You didn't do something they wanted, right?" The other three women looked at Helen and she seemed to squirm on her stool. "No... yes... but that is beside the point." She glared at Marti. "You bitch! I still won far and square!" Marti smiled. "Tough shit, Helen, I think the rules committee will see it my way, and besides, you only have a one in four chance of swinging before me." "Bitch! I hate you!" yelled Helen. At just that moment, the fanfare was played, the lights came up and the curtains opened, allowing the audience to hear Helen's words, and catching Robert walking quickly up to the table with the glass bowl. The auditorium seemed restless, many people still talking and others clapping uncertainly, and they only hushed when Robert picked up the microphone and turned towards them. He stared at them for a moment, and when he spoke, it was with authority. "It is the ruling of the rules committee with concurrence of the judges that we can have a third random draw, and that there is nothing in the rule book for the game that prevents a blue handcuff woman from asking for a third draw. There is concern that drawing a third ball with the possibility of Mrs Baker's number being picked after she had won her prize money, that it would make other women reluctant to enter the game in the future. So, the committee has decided that the rules will be changed to prevent a situation such as this from happening again. The change will be effective for next month's game, but for the purposes of tonight's game, if Mrs Helen Baker's number is picked she will be hanged today and the prize money given to her family." There was scattered applause throughout the auditorium at the decision and a buzz of discussion. Marti quickly asked, "If her number is picked, will she hang before me?" Robert looked over his shoulder to an area just off the stage and then pressed his finger against his earpiece; he nodded his head and turned around. "Yes, if Mrs Baker's number is picked, she will be hanged before you." "Fuck this! You are talking about me as if I am not here!" yelled Helen. "I won fair and square, and this bitch is jealous that she lost and I won!" The buzz of chatter deepened, and one or two hisses drifted from the auditorium. Marti just smiled at Helen, not saying a word. "Okay, we'll resume now," Robert announced and he quickly pushed the button again on the glass bowl. "But you can't do this!" Helen screamed, inviting more hisses. "I am afraid it is too late, Mrs Baker. The machine has already started." The sound of air rushed into the bowl and the four golf balls clinked against the glass. Marti watched impatiently during the twenty second time delay while Helen stared in horror. Suddenly, there came the second sound of air and the golf balls were pushed higher and then everybody heard the distinctive pop as the golf ball popped up to the top. Once more, everybody on stage and in the auditorium leaned forward, straining to see the number on the ball. Robert picked the ball out off the top, wrapped his hand around it and walked up on stage over to Marti. He opened the palm of his hand and showed the ball first to Marti, who just nodded. Then Robert turned around and faced the audience and the TV cameras. "The golf ball that was randomly selected was number..." Again he stretched out the suspense. "...THREE." Helen screamed, teetering on the stool as her body reacted to the shock. "You.. can't.. do.. this!" she shouted, a sob of terror in her voice. "I won the money!" Robert turned to her. "Yes you won the money and it will still be there for your family at the end of the show." He sounded cold, commanding. "I would advise you to keep control of your emotions, Mrs Baker, or you will lose your balance on the stool before you are ready." Helen shook and sobbed, looking down at her feet to steady herself as tears coursed down her cheeks. Robert spoke again, this time more gently, "You may choose the moment, Mrs Baker." Helen turned to Robert, then to Marti, then the audience and the TV cameras, and then spoke through her sobs. "Don't do this to me. Please don't. I won't step off my stool, you can't make me. I won fair and square." She looked down at her family. "Please kids, say something," she pleaded. "Please Bennie, get them to stop?" Her husband and her boys just looked on, not saying anything. She stood still, trembling, sobbing; suddenly a lonely figure. "Anytime, Mrs Baker," urged Robert, aware that the show was over-running. "I can't... I...I just can't make myself do this terrible thing. I won damn it, I won!" she sobbed, the strength gone from her voice. Somewhere in the audience, a woman moaned in pleasure: this was a rare treat, to see a woman so dejected, so frightened as she faced her death. Robert moved his right index finger to the side of his nose and gently rubbed it, a signal to Trudy to do her job. The girl walked out, coming up behind Mrs Baker setting the step ladder down next to her. The girl stood on top rung of the ladder and massaged Helen's right arm while whispering sympathy to her. As she did so, she looked at Marti and smiled. Helen continued to sob as she stared at the floor, but more softly as the massage calmed her down a little. Trudy brought her right hand up and gently massaged Helen's right tit and nipple. "This isn't fair," she sobbed to the youngster. "Shhh, Mrs Baker," soothed the eleven year-old, "everything will be all right." The audience was mesmerized watching the girl calm Mrs Baker. "This shouldn't be happening to me," Helen replied as tears streamed down her face. She looked up at Trudy. Trudy smiled sweetly at her. "I know and I agree with you," the youngster replied as continued to lightly massage Helen's right nipple. It took less than a minute but Mrs Baker finally relaxed her body in response to the little massages of her right arm and right nipple. The youngster was waiting just for that moment when Helen relaxed her body. She looked over at Marti and smiled again then looked Mrs Baker in the eyes as the Helen looked back at her, trust in the woman's eyes. Trudy gently pushed Mrs Baker just enough to shift her weight. As the stool clicked into action Trudy was down the step ladder and walking to the side of the stage with it. It happened so fast that neither Robert, the audience or camera teams realized the youngster had started Mrs Baker's death dance. Realizing suddenly what had happened, Helen screamed and then cried out, "Oh, god, please don't let this happen! Please, please, I won far and square!" as her feet came back onto the retracting stool. The cameras zoomed in on her face and her trembling body, finding and tracing the rivulets of sweat that ran down between her breasts and over her stomach. Other cameras were more intrusive, focusing tight up on her cunt and ass, answering the bloodlust that now seized the audience as they watched her struggling and in distress: many were masturbating now; a man stood and showered his spunk over the hair of the woman in front of him; a pre-teen locked her thighs around her mother's head, grinding her mouth against her baby smooth cunt. As the stool came even with the floor the same gurgling noise heard earlier from Mrs Fram came from Helen's throat, but terror made her panic. Instead of a slow, delicate dance, Helen fought and kicked from the start. Her wrists tore at the red handcuffs and seemed to melt as her blood ran. She choked repeatedly as the rope gripped and tightened around her struggling throat. After a minute of swinging wildly, she found by staying still she could breathe in a little air. She tried to calm herself, to give herself more time, but as she sensed the heat growing in her chest, the urge to kick, to try to touch the ground again, was too strong. She alternated frenzied pumping up and down of her legs with wheezing gasps but her struggle did nothing but cause the noose to pull tighter around her neck. She realized that she was caught in a horrible cycle: the more she panicked and kicked, the more the rope pressed harder against her throat, which caused more panic to build up. She tried but couldn't make herself stay still long enough as she pumped her legs in a running motion and soon only the tiniest trickle of breath would come, then none at all. After many more kicks, strangely, she began to relax, her legs mostly straight and twitching, her toes barely touching the floor. Her pelvis jerked occasionally and then the sound of water was heard dropping on the floor of the stage as Helen let go of her bladder. Unable to control it, or perhaps beyond caring, her piss flowed down her legs and pooled on the floor below her, and the cameras caught every moment of it. It was one of those strange moments that characterized The Game: the purists considered any sort of defecation while hanging to represent a failure by the contestant to exercise proper control, and as a result to destroy the dignity and beauty of their final moments; many of those watching, however, whether at home or in the studio, secretly longed to see such moments of personal weakness and humiliation and that was evidenced now by their behavior in the studio. People were openly masturbating now, people of all generations and sexes, and some, unable to contain their lust, had begun to fuck with complete abandon in front of the ever-present cameras. Helen seemed aware of the audience watching her as she dribbled pee onto the stage floor, probably more so since her struggling stopped. Her face became redder and redder and she began to drool, her tongue stuck out of the left side of her mouth. Even so, many in the television audience posted comments on the interactive studio screens that her face looked strangely beautiful. Her eyes bulged, but she blinked several times and remained conscious. She focused her gaze on the audience with her head forced by the knot to one side, and eerily, her lips tried to form words. She seemed now have accepted the noose, and as she watched, Marti was surprise at the amount of time it took before the light in her eyes went out. The picture of quiet grace she made towards the end was interrupted by her final throes. Then she hung silent and limp. Marti felt a little envious because Helen had experienced the thrill of the noose before she did, but watching her final moments, she knew that she had, at the last, gained understanding and she felt what she had done was right. Marti was so turned on by watching Helen hang that it took a moment for her breathing to return to normal, and it was only then that she realized that the studio had quietened and the audience were looking expectantly at her. She noticed that they were in various states of undress and knew that they no longer cared: they were feral now, a tribe in heat waiting for her to bring them to their final climax. She glanced at Amy and Helen's bodies hanging nearby. Betty had willingly strangled to death on this stage, she thought to herself, but Helen had to be helped with her hanging, by a low-paid attendant no less. Helen was a coward. "I am not going to be a coward!" an inner voice said. She was more nervous now than at any time today and trembling so hard that she felt her tits bouncing on her chest. "This is it," her inner voice told her, "the noose grabbing my neck with terrible tightness, the tingling between my legs, only able to breathe in shallow air at the beginning, pawing my feet just a little to find the ground. Then the slow choking, exciting at first. The audience will be excited with me, seeing my hips move, sharing my last throes, watching the rising sense of fear, the desperate fight for air, my wildly kicking legs. And finally, the searing in my lungs, as they breathe in the breath I will never get." "Fuck!" she thought. "I feel so wet, so aroused! I need to cum!" She looked to the side of the stage and there was the eleven year-old looking back at her, her hand already moving under her plaid skirt. She wanted to call her over, to use her mouth for one last orgasm before she hanged, but she knew it was out of the question. Feigning composure, she looked at her family and smiled and her youngest daughter waved back enthusiastically: she was another reason she had to do this right. She looked at the remaining three women still standing naked on their stools. These women would go home tonight, cook dinner for their families and watch TV, like any other night. She felt suddenly envious of them, envious of them being alive to continue their ordinary lives. Steeling herself, she pursed her lips and blew each of them a kiss and they returned her kiss in kind. An easy gesture for them, she thought, but smiled. She moved a bit on the stool, appreciating the sensation of cold metal under her feet. She wished she could run her hands over her body, feel the softness of her flesh, the wetness of her need. Trapped behind her back, her hands gathered into fists. She squared herself to the audience, smiled at them as best she could, and found her kids and husband and smiled at them again. Her nipples were little stones; she had the tingling sensation in her stomach and her sex was saturated; she'd never imagined such terror, or such exhilaration. It ran through her mind one more time, as if she was an observer: she, Mrs Marti Allen, would feel the grip of the noose, suspended by her neck. Floating just barely above the stage floor. Legs reaching out. Her windpipe slowly closing. Her final throes would come explosively as the audience watched her struggle and strain for just a few more minutes of life. Tearing at her wrists. Trying to escape the crescent of rope cutting into her throat. The audience would be giddy with the prospect of seeing her swing. And she, Mrs Marti Allen, would know she was swinging." Marti drew some precious air, held it, exhaled. She looked out at the audience, understanding how much they wanted this from her, and knowing how much part of her wanted to give it. "I am ready" Marti said, and stepped off the stool. There was a loud click as the stool started retracting and Marti stepped back on the stool, looking at her family. From around the auditorium there were gasps and murmurs of approval. As the stool became even with the floor, the rope's grip on Marti's neck was less fierce than she expected: certainly uncomfortable, but fascinating in its own way, like a loving hand grasping her tightly. She felt the noose clearly, across her throat at an angle, pressing under the sides of her jaw, hard against the muscles at the back of her neck. Where the noose gathered at the knot, behind her left ear, there was close to a void, and, as if by fate, it bent her head to her right so that she could see her family. She was surprised to find it was still easy to breathe. It took more effort than normal, but air was flowing slowly in and out of her lungs. The rasping sounds she'd heard from the other women made vibrations which she felt in her throat. Marti glanced at her toes. Funny to see the tips of her toes barely touching the stage. It felt like a dream: the weight of her body pulled at the noose, so she wasn't floating, but as she looked down it seemed almost as if she was. She was choking a little, yet she loved the warmth growing in her belly. She understood how Betty had seemed so calm as she hung from the rope. Tiny pinpricks of pleasure were invading her loins and her clit became engorged with blood, beating to the rapid rhythm of her heart. The pinpricks let her almost ignore the discomfort in her neck and she felt a strange urge to explain to the audience how wonderful she felt. She scanned them slowly again and found her husband, sitting next to their daughter, Nicki, holding her hand. Her daughter seemed transfixed at her mother swinging on stage as if in a trance. Her husband, though, was smiling and looked eager. Eager, it occurred to Marti, to see her swing. As her eyes locked on his, she trembled at his desire to see her dangle at the end of the noose. She sensed the waves roll over her, welcome and so warm. In the middle of her throes another thought struck. With her body jerking ever so slightly and as lovely as it felt, this might be the last pleasure she would ever have. She tried to relax and savor it but it was so hard without the physical dimension of a finger or hand or a mouth or a cock. She squinted round at Trudy: the girl had not moved from the side of the stage and was masturbating openly now, her skirt around her ankles; she was staring at her, and tears ran down her cheeks, as if she understood. Her focus was in her mind not on her body, until she took a breath, or at least tried: the noose had tightened while she was distracted and she could only force a little whistle of air from her lungs. She had to struggle to choke some back in. The rope was hurting her throat, the pain was real. She looked at her husband again. He was still smiling. With no consciously willed direction, Marti's body began to thrash. Unable to breathe at all, her emotions burst. She couldn't concentrate her vision. Her eyes opened and closed, darted back and forth. She hated herself for doing this. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have thought hanging herself was so romantic? Someone had to get her down from the rope! They had to! She wanted to go on living. Oh please, she'd never do anything so crazy again! Her chest ached and there was so much pressure and pounding in her head. Marti's struggling was the most frantic the audience had seen today. Her panic was the most touching they witnessed and drove their response to an intensity that the show had rarely witnessed. Any sense of reserve had left them now as they abandoned themselves to lust, and they didn't want it to stop, but for her hanging to go on. And at their centre, Marti's daughters reveled in the idea that their mother was swinging from a noose for their entertainment: each kick, each lunge, gave the girls another thrill of satisfaction as their fingers took them from one orgasm to the next. Like the two women before her, Marti's scrambling finally came to a stop. Her body no longer commanded her to move. The pain was gone from her chest, the need for air only a memory. All feeling was centered in the crush of her throat. She could still think, more clearly than she wanted. She could see the audience before her and sensed how excited they were. She thought about Betty and how she had seemed so ready, almost grateful as she slowly hanged herself, but also she was thankful that she didn't pee herself like Helen. She wanted this to be perfect, but now there was so little time. She looked down at her husband and her daughters and tried to smile; in response they smiled back and Nicki jumped up a down with excitement. A moment of clarity entered Marti's mind and she thought of how many times she and Nicki fantasized about just this moment as they had brought each other to orgasm and she suddenly wanted that now. She couldn't breathe and her head was beginning to swim but she could move. She started one last uncontrolled pumping up and down of her legs, and as her consciousness left her, she felt her engorged clit rubbed and squashed by the frantic movement of her thighs. ****** When Marti had stopped kicking, her husband watched her eyes widen as her face became impossibly dark. From his vantage point his wife looked so happy: indeed, when she was kicking she seemed to tremble in just the same way as she did when they fucked, and seeing that gave him wonderful shivers. He laughed to himself: this was even better than sex, and when Marti's eyes blinked their last time he was almost sorry it was over. Next to him, his youngest daughter moaned as her orgasm sent jolts of pleasure through her body, and her fingers seemed to clutch desperately at her smooth little cunt. He felt his cock throb with approval and smiled: he had never really thought of fucking his daughters, except in wanking fantasies, but now there would be a gap in his life which they could fill. It took almost a minute for the audience to respond to Marti's final moments, but when they did so, it was a cacophony of clapping and cheering which seemed to go on forever. Robert stepped out on stage and took a bow, and then beckoned for Marti's family to stand and receive their ovation as well. Amidst the hubbub, Trudywalked out on stage with her step ladder and removed the nooses from the remaining three women. Robert walked over to the three women as they were stepping down from their stools Trudy quickly removed the handcuffs from their wrists. They were joined by family of Helen Baker and he handed each of them a check, thanking them for their part in the show, but his words were drowned out by the continuing applause. Robert moved to the front of the stage and shouted into his microphone, "Thank you for watching another thrilling edition of "Your number is up". Please tune in next month in which six new contestants will try and beat the noose." He stepped back to join the others and as the shows final credits began, they stood in the centre of the stage, waving at the audience. Behind them, the bodies of Betty Fram, Helen Baker and Marti Webb swung gently from side to side as the curtain began to close in front of them. **** Trudy was surprised how quickly everything happened once the curtains closed and the credits ended. The audience began to head for the exits almost at once, and on the stage, the surviving contestants were ushered off and out as quickly as possible. Robert also left quickly, although on this particular night, he delayed his departure to be congratulated by the producer: tonight's show had overrun by ten minutes but already polls were suggesting that it had the highest audience ratings ever. As they spoke, Trudy and another assistant winched down the bodies of Betty Fram and Helen Baker, taking them in turn to the studio morgue where they would be claimed by their families. As they returned, Trudy told the assistant that she could leave early, that she would take care of the last body herself, and so she found herself alone on the stage with the body of Marti Allen. She didn't winch down the rope immediately, but stood in front of her and let her eyes wander over dead woman. She smiled at her, and spoke, as if she was alive. "I love you," she said softly, tears in her eyes, "since the first time you were here and I saw you on the web. You were wonderful tonight, but I never got to make you cum. I wanted us to make love." She reached forward tentatively and touched the rounded flesh of Marti's breast and found that it still retained warmth. Tears flowed now as she stepped forward and enfolded the body in her arms, holding her tightly against her own. She moved her head forward and kissed the dead lips lightly, and then more passionately, trying unsuccessfully to push her tongue inside the closed mouth. Crying softly, she stepped back and lowered Marti's body to the floor, lying it on its back and gently arranging it as if to try to make it comfortable. She began to kiss it, starting at the broken neck and then down over the nipples and flat stomach, to the sex. She carefully opened Marti's legs and leant forward, kissing softly over the mound and onto the cunt. The juices on Marti's labia were cold and congealing, but as the youngster plunged her tongue inside she felt warmth and taste and fragrance. Eventually she pulled back and stood up, removing her plaid skirt she knelt down again, her legs open. She took Marti's hand, cooling now, and placed it between her thighs, manipulating the fingers over her clit like a puppeteer and then guiding them into her saturated cunt. "Fuck me!" she said, and moved the dead fingers like those of a lover until she came. Gently, she withdrew the hand and placed it back on the floor, and then, like she had before, she wiped her wet fingers on Marti's cold lips. She stood slowly and dressed, and then walked over to fetch the trolley. As she reached the side of the stage, a piece of paper floated down from above and landed at her feet. Curious, she bent and picked it up: it was a mug shot of Marti, the one she used on her application. The young girl looked at it for a moment, and then back over her shoulder at Marti, and smiled.