Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience. Your wedding punishment by Sting (F, BDSM, Hang?) It is the day, and you are ready. You are dressed in a pure white satin wedding gown that clings perfectly to your upper body to emphasise your narrow waist and full breasts, though the skirts flare out generously at your hips and almost brush the ground, long enough for elegance but short enough that those who see you can admire the white high heels you wear and the steel chain locked between your ankles. You can walk, albeit a little slowly and the chain clinks enticingly as you take your careful steps. The wedding dress at your chest is scooped to reveal your immaculate cleavage and though naturally not all your breasts are on show, the smooth skin of your twin globes gleam seductively in the light. However the fact that you are more than a little aroused is betrayed by your hard nipples, straining against the smooth satin across your large bust. Your long throat is bare apart from a thin string of pearls, perfectly white against your flesh. Your hair has been swept up and styled clear of your ears, so all can see the heavy gold earrings at your lobes. They too catch the light as they swing. The dress material itself is expensive and slightly stiff; it rustles pleasantly and adds its own sound to the rattle of the ankle chains and the measured click of your high heels on the stone floor. There is one more sound; the gasps of those who have come to see you. Sadly there is nothing else from you. Your pretty mouth is stuffed with white satin panties and secured in place by a large white rubber ball gag, pushing the panties into your throat though a little hint of lace escapes the tight press of the ball gag. It adds to your appeal, and your excited eyes flash and smile for you as you walk past all the admiring people. They have, of course, come to see you hung. They may be unsure if it is final or you will be cut down in time, and you cannot either plead or beg one way or the other. Nor can you remove your gag, even if your hands weren't tied behind you (indeed, your elbows are tied tightly too, and the effect is to thrust your breasts out even more to the delight of all watching) for the gag has a small, golden padlock at the back to prevent you or anyone else from removing it. Not that you would want to, given choice. You accept that a woman about to be hung must be gagged as well as restrained. her task is to look as good as she can -- and you do -- in her final moments if that is what everyone wishes. You see, you are the object of their pleasure: if they choose to see you cut down they will demand your release before the tightening noose strips all life from you. if they are happy to stay silent, they will. You have no say and you wouldn't want it. Between your legs you grow wet, or rather wetter. Since you were dressed and bound and gagged you have been in a heightened state of arousal. Walking towards the noose you see waiting for you makes you even more excited. The juices that run down your leg add a smell of musky excitement to the air, and you feel your knees growing weak as you step forward. But you will not stagger or hold back. You walk on, with each snap of the chain at your ankles preventing you hurrying to what may be your end. You cannot know, but you can show you are at peace with all this. Your bound hands, resplendent in satin gloves, do not twitch as you walk because you are glad that they hold something precious to you. It is a white leather riding crop, for you to be beaten as you dangle on the end of the rope. Your skirts will be raised and your legs and rear beaten as you are hanging. savage cuts, designed to make you scream if it were not for your huge gag. You will endure to the end, or until someone decides you should be cut down and spared. Spared for now. There isa small stool beneath the noose. It is low enough that when pulled from under your feet your pointed toes will fail to reach the stone floor by the tiniest fraction for a few moments, and then a motor will silently haul you higher so the two chosen to beat you will have easy access. One to hold your skirts up, the other to cut the back of your legs with the crop. then they exchange positions, so both may get the pleasure of administering pain. You stand on the small stool and feel the noose placed round your neck. It is adjusted slightly so it presses already against your wind pipe, the knot in just the right place to ensure a slow demise if that is what the gathered people want. But however they decide the outcome, be assured it will be slow in order that the process of your whipping can proceed properly and thoroughly. The crop is removed from your grasp and your fingers bound tightly together with silver wire. it makes you moan with pain and pleasure into your gag and the audience purrs at your muffled sounds. Then another silver wire is added around your chest, tightened so the strand cuts into your swollen flesh and presses tightly against your nipples. The gathered people smile at your discomfort and someone lifts your skirt at the front to show the dampness on your thighs. You can't look down and see what they do; the way your shaved sex glistens with arousal. The way your clit is hard, made more prominent with the small stud that pierces it. Your skirt is lowered, and the hanging begins. The stool is removed and you fall those few centimetres, your toes automatically seeking the floor they will not reach. You gurgle into your gag, hearing the applause of the people watching, the scrape of the ankle chains on the stone floor, but above all else the gradual, slow tightening of the rope on your slim neck. You feel your skirt lifted and the whipping begin. Slow measured cuts and in the burning pain you almost explode with a climax. But it shouldn't come too soon. You must swing and suffer more before you finally get the release you crave. The people watching are cheering and smiling and clapping and they want to see you die. Or perhaps almost die and then be brought back another time to do this again. But no one is asking you. You do not matter, other than hanging to please them. If not this time then perhaps next time, or the time after it will be over. Perhaps the next time with more bonds, more punishment, more pain. Or perhaps this is it. It feels like it, with all the senses closing down, your bright, hot urine running down your legs and puddling on the stone floor beneath you. and still the whipping continues -- Nothing has been your choice, yet you want this. Want it more than anything. You finally climax with the darkness closing in. Wondering if they want to save you or leave you. But it -(TM)s not your choice.