"The Common Death of Bridgette Turner" By robblu (https://pastebin.com/u/robblu) URL: https://pastebin.com/HvB2menD Created on: Thursday 4th of August 2016 10:03:25 PM CDT Retrieved on: Saturday 31 of October 2020 03:30:01 AM UTC The Common Death of Bridgette Turner (Read 1620 times) submissive_margie Full Member *** Posts: 144 Author, artist, pain-slave, View Profile Email Personal Message (Offline) The Common Death of Bridgette Turner « on: February 03, 2016, 05:14:01 pm » Quote Once more, I delve into the mind of a young woman, called into the most common and routine of deaths in regards to culture and how it still is monumental as one approaches their end. This story also has a lovely dose of medical examination and nice beheading. The Common Death of Bridgette Turner "Bridgett Turner." The assistant in scrubs had a pleasant, sing song voice, but still hearing my name sent a reaction of chills through me. I was glad that I was able to get an appointment here however. The alternative that most of my peer group was forced to endure was not at all palatable. Standing in a ques of young women and watching what was going to happen to me before hand made me anxious. I had been waiting for nearly thirty minutes. The local culling had made this Resolution Clinic the busiest in the city. Though I was young, my parents had already purchased conversion insurance so that I could choose where it was that I would die were I to be culled. Elisha Dorn DA was also a friend of the family and had visited our home on more than one occasion. We went to church together. We lived far enough into the outer provinces that we generally didn't concern ourselves with the Conversion/Slave culture that was prevalent in the inner provinces and the capital. The only exception were the inevitable Resolutions when women came of age and the mandatory conscription of first born daughters into the slave population. We had all heard the news stories of nominal population adjustments that affected the outer province communities. As culls went this was not a large one. I am one of 6000 young women from all over a province of 450,000 people that were selected for liquidation. That was less than 1.5%. I understood what that meant. Some people feel that they are serving a higher purpose like being meat. I realized early on that wasn't the case. Most of us weren't even good food stock. I was slender...perhaps a little athletic. I had never conceived that I would be culled much less be desirable for food. No, I knew that we were dying simply to ease the potential of a population imbalance years down the road. I did read that my high school had one of the largest graduating classes in Provincial history, which meant that there was an inordinate amount of us that could change how the smooth running of the food cycle in years to come. This was the adjustment. It wasn't as noble sounding as many women wanted to hear but it was just as sound and necessary. I sit my magazine down and draw a deep breath before rising to my feet. I feel the other women's eyes on me, just as I watched all the women go back into the clinic to be killed. I walked slowly up to the woman who looked down quickly at my chart which had my Provincial photograph on it to confirm that I actually was me. It was against the law to purchase a slave and use them as a proxy death without government approval. "Alright, Ms. Turner, we'll take you right back here." I follow through the door and wonder how many women actually turned and ran. It is rare to hear of it happening, but every fiber of my flesh is screaming for survival and wanting to flee, despite the fact that my cogent, rational mind says that this is in order and it was time for to die. They are strange bedfellows. We walk by closed doors with glass windows. In one, as I pass I can see the top of a woman's head hanging from a noose, struggling against the asphyxiation. I only see it in passing and choose to not look into any more door ports as I am walking in. I'm not afraid to die. My sister was conscripted and immediately converted. Two of my good friends in the past years have been culled and butchered. While I don't wax romantic about what a privilege it is to be put to death for the betterment of society, at the same time I am not rebellious and want to be a good person. If I were to not submit to what, for thousands of women every day, is a normal thing, I stand out as the most selfish of persons especially since I have lived my life to this point partly because of all the women who were converted before me. She walks me to a table and gestures for me to sit. "Lets just take care of a few last minute details before we begin," her melodic voice intones. As she sits down and opens up a window on her computer, I see Elisha Dorn emerge from one of the execution rooms. She removes a smock that is slightly spattered with blood, putting it in a red bin and then washing her hands at the adjacent station. She is 33 years old but because of her short stature and the freckles on her face she looks so much younger. She also wears her hair in a boyish short style which is both odd and compelling. As she rises from washing her hands she sees me. Her face moves to a smile but I can tell it is a little bittersweet. It can't be fun being the person that has to end the life of someone they like, love or know. She walks over to me extending her hand. "Hi Bridgett. I saw your name on the roster." She is careful not to say that she was sorry, even is she was. Her job is to make sacrificial death as normal an act as all of the other daily passages. "I'm glad I got to get in," I say sincerely accepting her hand shake. "I went down and saw what was going on at the Feast Day downtown at the park. People are having fun, but it's just too rough for me." Elisha nods knowingly though I always imagined her as one who wouldn't shrink from the old ways of Domination and submission for slaves and conversions. This was much better for me. "Will you be the one doing it?" "No," she says, shaking her head resolutely. "I try not to terminate people that I know." She pats the assistant on the shoulder, who looks up and smiles. "I'm going to let Irene process you. She is really good at her job and as long as there aren't any problems, we should be able to send you off clean and easy." Those are welcoming words to my ears after seeing the women being slaughtered and tortured horribly at the park. Report to moderator Logged submissively, Margie Scarborough submissive_margie Full Member *** Posts: 144 Author, artist, pain-slave, View Profile Email Personal Message (Offline) Re: The Common Death of Bridgette Turner « Reply #1 on: February 03, 2016, 05:16:47 pm » Quote Part 2 Elisha gives me a very professional smile and holds her arms out. I rise and accept her hug. "As soon as she gets your information, she will take care of you. I'm going to miss you. Good bye, Bridgette." "Bye." She turns away from me smartly and walks to another execution chamber. A few moments later as Irene is collecting data and typing it swiftly through the computer, I can hear a muffled death cry come from the room my friend just went into. I feel myself start to become anxious which Irene begins to sense. Looking up at me. "Listen Bridgette," she says with a soft yet authoritative tone. "You are now a conversion. I want you to be able to get the full benefit of your submission. I am authorized to use pain to encourage the fullest cooperation possible. Do you understand that?" I look into Irene's face for the first time and measure the person as more than a lackey for Elisha. Her eyes are leveled and sincere, and there is a tension between sympathy and resolve in her expression. "Yes, ma'am," I respond, the meekness of it startling to me. As if to reemphasize the point she peeks up a prod, its electronic metal tip as obvious as it was ominous. "I'll be good. Just a little unnerving." I pause and brave a question. Though she was in authority over me, what she was about to do to me was still a service provided. "May I ask how I will be killed?" "Well, I can guess for you," she said pleasantly returning to the computer screen and punching in several more entries. "Method of death administration is determined by flesh utilization. I will do some measurements and examine you for grading before I can know that." Irene's eyes remained on the monitor so she doesn't see my resigned nod and the lowering of my eyes. I want to die well. I have to focus on that and that alone. With my head lowered, I concentrate on the sound of her fingers deftly flying over the keyboard, the sound of the buttons themselves cathartic and relaxing. I raise my eyes as she rolls her chair from the table. "Let's go ahead and examine you and get your grade established. What I would like you to do is take off every bit of jewelry and accessories that you have on. That includes the belt on your jeans, anything in your pockets,..." She looks down at my sandals. "That includes the toe ring and your shoes, your hair band. We will put them in a bag to return to your family with your clothes. I will be right back." She rises and goes down the opposite hall from where Elisha went. Drawing in deep breath and unconsciously treasuring it, I begin to divest myself of the accouterments that I adorned in the morning. However, I realize that much of the items, especially my jewelry, I hadn't removed in years. My finger had tan lines from the length of time the ring had hidden the skin. I slip my sandals off and place them into the large zip-locked bag that Irene provided. Then I find that my toe ring is reluctant to release from my fourth digit on my right foot. It is silver and was a gift from a boyfriend who liked to suck my toes during sex. As Irene emerges from her errand, I am suddenly flush with the concern that I might be in trouble and taste her electric discipline tool for not having the ring off. Though I don't look up from my task, I sense her ironic smile as she kneels down in front of me. "I know these can be a pain," she intones in a motherly fashion though she is only slightly older than me. The touches my skin for the first time, without asking and begins to gently twist the toe ring. It hurts and I wince visibly. "Sorry," she says without stopping. The ring begins to give and twist more freely. When that happens, Irene begins to pull it down the length, trying to get it to pass over the knuckle of my toe. It takes a moment and there are more winces on my part and frustrated whispered epithets on her part, but the ring finally slides reluctantly off the toe, leaving scrapped flesh behind. I am relieved, wondering what they did in such cases. It was something I should have taken care of before I arrived. She put it in the bag and then allowed me to put my hairband in. I was wearing a tank top shirt under a flannel shirt without a bra, not being a large or heavily breasted girl. Irene gestured. "Why don't you put the outer shirt too." It wasn't a question and I obediently unbutton the shirt and wad it into the bag. I realize that I am ready to be done with this. The stress of the waiting is greater than my fear of dying. Dreading the inevitable pain of death's transition has become more consuming than its inevitability. Without being asked, I rise when she does, with a shiver. Now only wearing the spare white cotton tank, sweat pants and underwear, the air in the clinic is causing goosebumps to erupt on my skin. Part of that is surely my anxiousness which always magnifies goosebumps. "This way," Irene says. I follow her into a room with a single medical table in it. The room is not empty. A large woman, my age is on the table along with an older man in his forties who is examining her. The woman's blouse is open and her breasts which are huge fall ungracefully to her sides. I estimate the woman to be nearly 275 lbs. The woman is calm and unperturbed. Irene and I enter and stand quietly observing. "Lets take this down and check your rump and thighs," the man says with routine tones. His hands are already at her jeans waistline and has unsnapped them. The woman watches as he unzips the fly and then raises her ample mass off the table, catching the waistline in her hands and pulling the denim below her bottom. The man takes over from there and pulls both jeans and undergarment completely off her leg. Without instruction the woman rolls onto her stomach, quite nimbly for her size. The man takes her broad buttocks in hand and moves and squeezes the flesh. His hands move roughly down the back of her thighs squeezing with visible firmness. "Well, I'm sure that you knew already, but you have a very high grade." The woman sits up and pulls off her shirt, leaving her large corpulent body naked on the table. The man has move to a closet full of white terry cloth robes and brings one to her. "Thank you, Sir." It is the first time I have heard her voice and it seems almost like a child's, it is so soft and high, incongruous with the size of her body. She slides easily off the table and dons the robe thankfully. Elisha comes into the room and seems to deliberately avoid eye contact with me. She comes straight up to the big woman. The man turns to her when she enters and his demeanor shows her deference. "This woman grades at 3.73. Still a grade 'A'. She needs to be whole for shipping." Elisha nods at the man and then returns her gaze appreciatively to the woman in the robe. "Alright Miss Bern," she says evenly. "As a grade 'A' whole sow, you will need to be butchered whole. Would you prefer to be spitted and gutted or just disemboweled?" "I'll take the Jessica," the woman answers quickly. I am numbed by the exchange. Neither death is easy or painless. Though death can occur within 8-10 seconds, it can also last 30 or 40 seconds. This was the foolish research I spent time on. "Alright, then, if you will follow me, I will get you processed." The woman calmly follows Elisha out but she makes a point of making eye contact with me as she leaves, nodding with only the illusory hint of a smile. "Alright, Irene," the man says as he is washing his hands. "Who do we have here?" Irene takes me gently by the elbow and leads me to the table. "This is Bridgette. She is a friend of Elisha's and she is being processed today. Could you grade her out please?" The man stepped around the table, extending his hand. "Hello Bridgette. It's nice to meet you." "Thank you." I pause awkwardly. "Do want me to undress?" The man smiles with genuine appreciation. "Not unless you want to. Eventually, we will strip you but right now I just need you to stand here with you legs slightly apart." I changed my stance accordingly. "And lift your arms up over your head and remain in that position." When I comply, the man kneels down in front of me and taking two hands runs them firmly up my left leg until the side of his left hand presses up against my crotch. He repeats the procedure on the opposite leg. He then scoots until he is at a 45 degree angle from me and lets his hand press against my belly, moving it down in careful measured strokes that spoke of an expertise that is beyond me. However, it invokes a strange feeling in me and I feel a tingle and a chill on the back of my neck as I watch him examine me. When he is finished with my belly, his opposite hand moves to my back and sides in a similar fashion.Then his hand wanders over my buttocks where he seems to pay special attention though I sense nothing salacious or lascivious in his touch. It feels neither good nor unpleasant. It is simply functional and for the first time I realize that this man doesn't see me as a person...nor could he... in order to do his job properly. He rises to his feet and looks me calmly in the face. "Climb on the table, lay on your back please. I will need you to take your pants and underwear down past your knees." I pause. "Wouldn't it be easier for me to just take them off?" I was far past modesty. The man shrugs as if I had asked an irrelevant question. I sigh and tug my sweats and panties down in a swift motion, stepping out of them when they fall to my ankles. I pick them up and Irene is there to collect them. I don't even think about my top and mount the table as instructed, my legs together in false modesty. "I want you to draw your knees up, bending them." I obey and he nods agreeably. "Good. Keep your feet together now, but let your legs fall open. I do this carefully as if I am going to break glass but know it is because I don't want to earn a prod from Irene's stick. I let my legs open and the cool air washes over my bare genitals, the petals of my flower opening spontaneously. The man is putting gloves on and I feel my heart beat start to race. I have to calm or I will hyperventilate. Without any preamble he is touching my delicate lips while holding a penlight in the opposite hand to illuminate anything hidden from him. I imagine he is looking for signs of venereal disease or genital warts. He turns from me after several delicate minutes of touching me, the final thirty seconds focusing on my clitoris and adjacent hood flesh. He turns back and I can see that two fingers on his right gloved hand glisten. He returns his hand between my legs and I feel his index and middle fingers pause only a moment at the aperture of my vagina before easily sliding in. "Mmmmmm..." The sound emanates so spontaneously that it embarrasses me. It wasn't that it was overly pleasurable, it was simply the sound one makes when being penetrated. Neither the man nor Irene seemed fazed by the demonstration. I try to relax as the man digitally examines my birth canal. While I don't think he means to, I feel myself unwillingly aroused as his finger accidentally rubs my g-spot and I feel my face go flush with unexpected arousal. Doesn't my pussy know I am about to die? Just as I was letting my eyes fall closed to savor the sensation of his fingers inside me, he abruptly pulls them out, now glistening with a new organic lubrication. "Lift your legs into the diaper position please." I obey, crossing my ankles and raising my legs in the air. He captures my ankles with his free hand and presses my knees down until they are pressing against my chest. When he does this, it causes my rump to rise slightly off the table and the cool air in the room wafts over my now exposed anus. One of his fingers still slick with my excitement gently presses against the nestled, reluctant rosebud. It pushes but not firmly, his finger more nestled then violating. "Relax your sphincter, please." His request is gentle and when I do it, his finger eases completely inside my rectum. "OHHH!" "Just keep relaxed." I feel his finger swirling around my butthole. I know that he is looking to feel things in there and I am embarrassed that his finger will come out stool smeared because I hadn't taken the time to empty my bowels before coming. His finger is inside my butt for about 45 seconds and then he withdraws carefully. I take a cleansing breath as he removes the gloves. He comes back to the table near my head and looks down but he is not looking at my face so I close my eyes again. I feel his hands raise my top over my breasts and my nipples crinkle as the capillaries restrict from the cool air. His hands run up the sides of my body and then take in my breasts before releasing them. It is the briefest part of the examination. Routine for a small girl like me. He looks over at Irene. "I put her at 2.75...C+ at best. We don't have to put her in the Hopper but she needs to be parted out." "Thank you," Irene says as she steps to the table. I see the man moving to the closet again and retrieving a robe. "Bridgette," she says with an almost motherly tone again, touching my tummy as she speaks. "It's time to put you to death. I'm going to take you down the hall to a death chamber and we're going to behead you. It's very clean and relatively painless. Are you ready to go?" I sit up, now going through motions of inculcated conditioning and ignoring the flesh's instinct to flight. I am always looking at the prod hanging from Irene's belt. I accept the robe gratefully and pull it on over my top. Report to moderator Logged submissively, Margie Scarborough submissive_margie Full Member *** Posts: 144 Author, artist, pain-slave, View Profile Email Personal Message (Offline) Re: The Common Death of Bridgette Turner « Reply #2 on: February 03, 2016, 05:17:17 pm » Quote Part 3 "Yes, ma'am, I'm ready." Is anyone truly ready? "Come this way." Irene turns and walks out of the room, confident of my following her, which I do as if in a trance. This time, we walk down the corridor that I had seen Elisha go down the first time. Every 8 feet there is a door to a different death chamber. I can't see in well because the square windows in the doors are just above my eye level. We come to the last door on the right which has a red light still on above the door. There is a similar red light on the door opposite. "They are finishing up cleaning from the last conversion. They are almost done." We stand awkwardly. I can hear voices across the hall through the door. The words aren't distinguishable but the tones tell me that it is Elisha and Miss Bern who I watched being examined. Elisha says something in an interrogative tone and there is a silent response before I here a mechanical thrum of machinery from behind the door. Ten seconds later there is a cry of agony coming from the heavy woman. I know she is being killed at that moment and suddenly my heart is slamming into my chest. I am about to die! No one teaches about the feelings that you have when you are called to conversion. You get a psych evaluation to make sure that you are truly submitting and consenting to being killed but even that doesn't address the conflagration of emotions that a girl feels in the last moments of her life, especially when others are dying around you. The red light shifts to green and the door opens and two maintenance emerge. The nod at Irene as they leave and Irene holds the door for me. "Bridgette, I want you to walk in and stand where you see the first set of foot prints on the floor." I step inside and obediently walk and place my feet on the outline footprints in green on the floor. Next to the feet are the words 'position 1'. The room is tiny, more like a big closet. When you walk in, the floor is the first thing you notice with a bright yellow line moving from the door to the first set of footprints which Irene made me aware of, which were about three feet inside and facing down the long axis of the room. The yellow line turns left to a second set of footprints about three further. These were positioned directly in front of a metallic wall near the end of the room. One could tell that the room had a brief amount of space beyond the wall but it was a paltry amount. The ominous part lay with the wall itself. Directly in front of the second set of footprints was a comfortable cushion for kneeling. When one knelt, it was easy to align their head with the open notch in the frame of the metallic wall. This was the guillotine which would separate my head from my frame and end my life. They had done a marvelous job of cleaning, because other than the residual drops of water around there was no trace of the room even needing to be cleaned. Irene closes the door behind her and there is a low buzz alarm announcing that the room is busy with my demise. Irene in a most deliberate way, removes her prod and sits it down on the control panel on the side wall. "I won't be needing this," she muses as she presses a button on the board. A low thrum comes from the walls and the notch in opens from the top and bottom. I can barely stand because my breath is so shallow. "Just relax," Irene says as she comes to my side. "You're doing fine." Her voice is encouraging and gentle, stark contrast from the gravity of the situation. It is good and I take another deep breath to steady myself. Then she asks the question, her voice almost imploring. "Bridgett, do you come here today of your own volition and do you willingly submit to conversion?" I don't mean to pause but can't help it before moving on. It seems an appropriate drama. "Yes ma'am, I do." "Then with your permission, I will put you to death by severing your head." "You have my permission, ma'am." My voice is barely above a whisper. Irene moves immediately after my declaration, opening the robe I have on and effortlessly letting it fall of my shoulders. This room is warm and I don't feel the chill I did before when I was examined. I am standing there in my halter top alone as she hangs up my robe. She returns behind me, and I can feel her close, her breath warm on the nape of my neck. "Raise your arms," she instructs softly in my ear, capturing the bottom hem of my shirt. Even as I am lifting my arms she is pulling the gauzy fabric up my frame and over my head, leaving me completely naked. She is still behind me and for a moment I sense nothing before I feel her hands carefully gathering my long hair together in my hands. It is the last time anyone will touch me and she isn't rough, the ministrations of her hands pleasant. I feel the hair tie restrain my length into a ponytail and then feel her tie that up into a messy bun near the top of my head. My neck is completely bared and its length now vulnerable. "Step to position two, please." My bare feet pad forward and I step into the second set of footprints. Irene bends down and adjust the cushioned pillow on floor in front of me. "Kneel down with your knees right here." "Yes, ma'am." I obey without considering. There are two bars alongside the pillow to support me. I grab them without thinking now kneeling. Put your head through the notch, please." I look at her one last time. She older but pretty and seems kind. I wish I could have known her. She is the last person I will ever see. These are the kind of things I am thinking about. Last time, I am dressed. The last time I will blink. Tears begin to flow from my eyes as I settle my neck into the notch. I sense movement behind me and before I can turn to look the notch closes. On the other side it is empty except for a chute directly below my tear laden face. "Are you ready, Bridgette?" The last words I will ever hear. "Yes, ma'am," are fittingly the last words I will ever speak. There is only a momentary pause. Then there is a mechanical sound followed by a loud clang. Suddenly, I am aware of motion that is accompanied by pain but it is nondescript and indefinable. I am tumbling through darkness. I still feel myself... my extremities. I am cogent and know that I am dying but it is so surprising that I am able to make this discerning that I am fascinated by what is happening. Motion stops abruptly without a bounce and then I begin moving again. I see light and I emerge into it. I wish I didn't know where I was. I am a severed head still conscious, my brain not registering that I am dead. My head is on a conveyor where I see a head in front of me. It stops at a station and a female worker stops the line, picks up the head and places it in a vice. I am in the processing house and the line is paused for her to do her task. She makes two long quick cuts through skin along the hair line. Then grabbing the hair tightly in a gloved hand, she pulls hard. In her other hand she has a meat knife and cuts the skin membranes free from the bone beneath. When the face is nearly completely cut, she pulls up a saw and expertly saws through the skull above the eye line. I feel nauseous which is strange because I don't know where my stomach is. I can barely see the brain of the girl who died before me being removed when their are a medley of increasing bright flashes in my eyes until all I can see is colorless white.