The screen of my phone lit up with an incoming Telegram message. In my line of work, Telegram provides security and anonymity, which is imperative to all parties hoping to remain anonymous. The message was from an anonymous number, a simple question that sent a peculiar shiver down my spine.
“Ever beheaded someone with a sword?” it read.
I took a deep breath, my heart thumping in my chest like a drum at a silent auction. The absurdity of the question was huge, but the seriousness with which it was presented was undeniable. This was no jest or macabre role-play. The sender was genuinely seeking an answer.
With trembling fingers, I typed out a cautious response. “Yes, I have,” I wrote, “but what brings you to ask such a question?”
A moment passed, and then another message appeared. “I have a proposition for you. A… service, if you will.” The words hung in the digital void, weighty with implication.
I stared at the screen, the gravity of the situation sinking in. This was no ordinary request, but something about the message, the urgency, the desperation, compelled me to continue the conversation.
“I’m here to listen,” I replied, my voice echoing in the quiet room. “But I need to understand the context before I can consider my answer.”
The response was swift. “I’m not dying,” the anonymous user typed, “I have been offered a choice by my peers on how I wish to answer for my crimes. This isn’t about pain relief or a peaceful end. This is about making a statement and satisfying my peers’ expectations.”
I leaned back in my chair, the cold metal digging into my spine. “What statement do you wish to make?” I messaged back, my curiosity piqued.
The anonymous user responded quickly. “I belong to an Order that has found me guilty of exceeding my power, of becoming a monster hidden behind a veneer of respectability, whose crimes had gone unpunished until now. The desire for beheading wasn’t just a morbid fascination; it was a symbol of acceptance and embracing the needs of the Order to stop my crimes from reflecting badly upon the other members. Being beheaded would satisfy their needs.”
With a heavy sigh, I typed out my next question. “And what happens after the…statement is made?” I paused, swallowed hard, and continued, “What’s the plan for the body?”
The response was cold and calculated. “It’s all been arranged,” they said, “I have a witness who will handle it and will likewise witness my execution.”
The words sent a chill down my spine. “How do you see your execution being carried out?” I responded.
“Like Ann Boleyn,” the man replied, his digital voice devoid of emotion, yet I could almost hear the anticipation in his words. “I want it to be swift, a spectacle to match the weight of my crimes.”.
“Okay,” I responded, remembering that Anne Boleyn was kneeling with her head upright. Anything else?”
The man on the other end took a moment before responding. “I have been granted a final request that is in keeping with my crimes. I am permitted to be naked,” he began, “and as a final act, they agreed to my desire to masturbate for the final time, and as I reach my climax, I want the strike of the sword to take my head.”
I sat there, the weight of his words pressing down on me like a lead blanket. The absurdity of the request was overshadowed by the gravity of the situation. I typed back, “I hate to tell you, but I doubt you will be able to get a hard-on under the circumstances.”
“That’s not a problem,” he replied, “I have considered that. I get aroused easily and, oh, I almost forgot, I expect you and the witness to be naked, which will turn me on, plus I will take some medication to ensure I am aroused. Trust me.”
Surprised about being naked for the task, I texted, “Where and when do you want this to happen?”
“I’ve built an execution stage,” the anonymous user replied, his words painting a grim picture in my mind. “It’s in a secluded corner of my estate. Privacy is guaranteed. I’ll transfer five hundred thousand dollars to your account upon acceptance of the contract.”
“And when?” I asked while almost falling off my chair at the suggested fee for my service.
“Next weekend”, the man replied, the urgency in his digital voice sending a chill through me. “Everything is ready. I just need an expert like yourself.”
“Fair enough,” I responded. “I agree, but I have a couple of conditions.”
The anonymous user replied with a simple “Go ahead.”
I took a deep breath and sent the request for the exact location. I also suggested the time, midday on Saturday, and that the money must be transferred immediately after the conversation, when I would share my account details.
“It will be done,” came the swift reply, with another message afterwards sharing the location coordinates.
Five minutes later, the notification on my phone buzzed with the sweet sound of money being transferred into my account. The sum was substantial, but the task was no ordinary job. I stared at the screen, contemplating the gravity of what was to come. This wasn’t just about the act itself; it was about the statement it would make to those people that cared.
With a sense of dread mixed with professional resolve, I stood up from my chair and approached the corner of the room where I kept my collection of weapons. Among the gleaming blades, my eyes fell upon the samurai sword I had acquired from a rare antique store. It was beautiful, yet terrifyingly sharp, a silent sentinel of death waiting to be unsheathed. I picked it up, feeling the weight of centuries of history in my hands. The cold steel was surprisingly comforting as I drew it from its scabbard.
The sound of metal sliding against metal filled the room, a melancholic symphony of finality. I stepped onto the worn wooden floorboards and began to practice the art of beheading, a skill that I had never thought I would need to perfect after the previous occasion. The blade sliced through the air with a whisper, the fine craftsmanship of the weapon speaking volumes about its deadly potential. Each swing was meticulously calculated, aiming for an invisible target that represented the neck of the man I was about to execute.
As the days passed, my apprehension grew, but so did my determination to carry out the task to the best of my ability. I packed my bag, ensuring that the black mask was tucked away neatly beside the samurai sword. The journey to the execution site would take two days, but I knew I had to be prepared for any eventuality. The hood was a symbol of my anonymity, a necessary precaution in this bizarre world where death was a service and I was the provider.
The day of the execution dawned with an unseasonable chill. With the coordinates programmed into my GPS, I set off, the hum of the engine the only company in the quiet predawn hours as I left the hotel. When I arrived, I parked my car and walked through the woods for thirty minutes until I arrived at the exact location, twenty minutes before midday.
The execution stage stood tall and foreboding in the middle of a clearing, surrounded by trees that whispered secrets to the wind. A knot of tension tightened in my stomach, the sword’s cold presence against my back a constant reminder of my purpose. I also noted that there were ten steps to the top of the platform, which was about ten feet by ten feet. More than enough to swing a sword with accuracy.
At the bottom of the stage, a table lay draped in a crimson cloth, a stark contrast to the greenery surrounding it. The sight of it sent a shiver down my body as I looked at the bottle of brandy with three empty glasses, with a note saying, “For you to enjoy should you wish.
This was who I would prepare for my grim task as I took a deep breath and began to disrobe, the chilly air kissing my bare skin. The anonymity of the executioner’s hood and the gravity of my outfit were a stark contrast to the casual clothes I had been wearing just moments before as I folded them neatly on the table. Naked and masked, I poured a swift measure of brandy into a glass, the spirit and flavor warming as I waited.
I stood on the bottom step of the stage, my eyes tracing the intricate design of the sword’s hilt. As the final drops of brandy disappeared down my throat, I saw them emerge from the tree line, their figures slowly materializing as they approached the stage. The condemned man was wearing a white nightshirt that billowed around his knees. His bare feet whispered against the damp earth, and his eyes held a strange mix of fear and anticipation. The witness, adorned in a black mask that concealed his identity, walked solemnly beside him, his robes a silent testament to the seriousness of the event.
The two figures grew larger as they approached, their steps measured and deliberate. The condemned man’s erection was unmistakable underneath his nightshirt, a testament to his morbid arousal.
When they reached the base of the stage, the condemned looked up at me, his eyes searching for any sign of judgment or hesitation. I offered him a nod, my features obscured by the mask. This was the moment of truth, and I felt a strange kinship with the condemned, a shared understanding that we were both bound by the inescapable finality of what was to come.
The witness surprised me by pouring two large measures of the brandy, offering it to the man while drinking the glass he kept in one go. “Ready, Sir?” he asked as he returned the empty glass to the table.
“That I am,” the man responded, drinking the brandy in one go, depositing the glass on the table. The witness looked at me and nodded, and as I started to lead the way up the steps, he unhooked his robe, allowing it to fall to the grass.
As I led the way, the condemned man began to ascend the steps, each footfall echoing through the clearing like a solemn bell tolling for his life. His witness, now naked, followed close behind, the masked face a silent sentinel of the bizarre pact we had all entered into. At the top, the condemned stood on the bare wood, his breathing shallow and quick.
The sight of him there, vulnerable and exposed, sporting a huge erection under his nightshirt, sent a wave of arousal through me, but I knew I had a duty to fulfil as I started to feel myself becoming aroused.
“Sorry about that,” the condemned said, looking at my swelling cock. I had the brandy laced because I wanted to use your excitement as my final muse.”
I nodded, understanding that in this twisted scenario, his final moments were his own to dictate, as I noted that the witness had developed an erection from drinking the brandy.
In silent thought, the condemned man knelt before me, the stage creaking softly under the weight of his trembling body. His gaze never left my crotch, the anticipation in his eyes growing with each passing second. The witness stepped behind him, his hands gripping the fabric of the nightshirt with a surprising ferocity. With a swift, violent motion, he tore the garment down the back, exposing the pale, freckled skin of the condemned to the crisp autumn air.
Now fully naked with the nightshirt nestled around his ankles, the man’s erection stood tall and proud, a morbid totem to his dark desires and the additional effects of the brandy. He licked his lips, his eyes never leaving my own, and spoke in a low, even tone. “As I reach climax,” he began, “you must strike.” His words were a command, a final act of control in a world that had otherwise spiraled into chaos. I nodded, my grip tightening around the samurai swords hilt.
The witness, his erection evident, stepped aside to give me the space needed for the grisly task. His eyes never left the man before me, a silent participant in this twisted ritual. I moved into position behind the condemned, the blade’s edge glinting in the sunlight that pierced the canopy of leaves above.
The man’s hand started moving up and down his shaft, a rhythmic accompaniment to the rustle of the leaves in the trees as we watched him grow more engrossed in his final sexual act.
He took his time, savoring the sensation of his hand, his arousal, his power over his body even as it was about to be taken from him. His hand was a blur, a silent symphony of skin on skin, his breathing grew heavier as his climax grew nearer. The witness watched, his erection bobbing slightly in time with that of the condemned man’s movements. The anticipation in the clearing was thick, the air charged with a mix of lust and fear.
I could see the veins in his neck pulsing with the increased blood flow as he approached the peak of pleasure. My arousal was unwelcome but undeniable, a dark twist to the morbid dance we were all engaged in. With a deep breath, I centered myself, focusing on the task at hand. This was not about me, nor the witness, nor our perverse reactions to the unfolding scene. This was about the man kneeling before me, about his need for redemption through a dramatic exit.
The sound of his masturbation grew more frantic, and I knew the moment was approaching. I also noted that the witness had started to masturbate as I raised the sword, feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders. This was not just an execution; it was a grim performance, a final bow to the twisted narrative he had written for himself.
As his hand moved faster, his breath grew more ragged. The witness leaned forward, his eyes glued to the man’s face as he massaged his cock, precum visible, dribbling from the slit. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh filled the clearing.
The man’s eyes rolled back in his head, his body tensing. His hand paused momentarily and then with a grunt, he reached his climax as he shot a huge load of cum, landing at least three feet in front of him. The moment hung in the air, a frozen tableau of ecstasy and dread as he spurted more cum from his cock, his eyes closed, as the last tremor of pleasure left his body. Seeing that he had shot so much cum was my signal and it was then that I swung the sword down with all the strength I could muster.
The blade sliced through the air with the speed of a lightning bolt, a silent promise of release. The man’s head didn’t move as my sword exited his neck, but I could see that the blade had done its job, as it slowly toppled from his body, a spray of blood arcing through the air like a crimson fountain. The head landed with a sickening thud on the wooden decking, his eyes staring blankly into the abyss of death.
And then his body collapsed backwards onto the stage, blood continuing to pour from his body. The head now lay by his feet as his body came to rest on its side, his hand still gripping his cock that had now become flaccid in death but we could still see cum oozing from the tip only to mingle with the dark red blood that continued to flow.
The witness’s grip tightened on his cock, his climax overtaking him as he watched his friend’s final moments, shooting his cum, as he remained bound by the perversion of the event as the lifeblood of the condemned man pooled around the stump of his neck.
The silence that followed was deafening, the only sound the faint rustle of leaves and the harsh breathing of the living. The witness’s masked face was a canvas of conflicted emotions, relief, horror and arousal.
As the man’s body went slack, the witness stepped forward, his erection subsiding as the reality of the situation set in. He gently laid the nightshirt over the headless corpse, a strange act of modesty in the face of such a brutal demise.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “It had to be done, and the world is now a better place.”
With the deed complete, I wiped the blade with a cloth I had brought with me and started to walk down the steps, more than happy to leave the grisly task to the witness in dealing with the body.
The mask still in place, I picked up my clothes and walked away, making my way back to the car, naked, the crunch of leaves underfoot echoing in the now-silent clearing. The taste of brandy lingered on my tongue, a bittersweet reminder of the bizarre encounter.
I put the sword in the trunk and slowly got dressed, tucking my erection into my tighty whities, not feeling up to relieving myself. My contract had been fulfilled, and my identity remained anonymous as I drove away, half a million dollars better off, wondering why this event had occurred, pondering the remark of the witness, wondering “what had this man done to request such an end?”
by Borehamwood Man
