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Posted: 10-Jan-2017 - 4 comment(s) [ Comment ] - 0 trackback(s) [ Trackback ]


The genesis of this story is kind of hard to explain in detail – I don't entirely understand what made me want to write it myself, and it might reveal a few more plot points than I care to give away in advance if I did, although I'll try and give an (inevitably confused) explanation to anyone who wants one. All I'll say for now is that I was inspired to think that an electric chair story which involved a few common fetish porn tropes could still feel plausible by reading a couple of stories from Volts McGee's marvellous "Electric Chair Anthology" – "High Voltage" and "Reflections on a Crime" in particular, and decided to try and write my own. So thanks to V for posting the link to the aforementioned anthology [ ] on my group, Volts McGee (obviously) for compiling and posting it and the two authors of the aforementioned stories, whose name I don't know (but if you do please pass on my thanks). Thanks to V also for proofreading this to check for implausibility in the descriptions of female sexual arousal. Love you!


Sophie knew that Emily was worried about her – she couldn't remember the last time she'd walked her to the Metro station and sat with her waiting for the train – and she was grateful for her concern. As the train rolled in, Sophie stood, and Emily stood too. As Sophie turned to kiss her on the cheek, as she did most mornings, she saw Emily open her arms and, without thinking, she fell into them and held her tightly, feeling the warmth of her breasts against her own through her coat and tracing the small of her back with her hands.

"Stop blocking the doors, you dyke sluts!" a commuter in a suit jeered.

"Fuck off, dickhead!" Emily shot back, without looking away from Sophie; then, whispering in Sophie's ear, she said, "You hang in there. Just remember this isn't your fault: she killed a man – she was convicted by a jury and sentenced by a judge – now she has to pay the price." As Sophie uncoiled her arms, Emily put her hand to Sophie's cheek and wiped away a tear. "I'll have dinner ready for when you get home, but it doesn't matter at all if you don't want it."

"Thanks," said Sophie, stepping on the train just before the doors closed and turning to wave to her and mouth "I love you" through the glass. As the train pulled out, she found a seat and sat staring at the mucky floor in shame.


She knew she was lucky to have Emily, who looked after her whenever she felt vulnerable, but equally she knew she would not be telling Emily the source of her vulnerability now – she could barely admit it to herself. She'd been a guard at the prison for nearly 10 years now, and was one of the most experienced and highly paid staff members there. She'd seen dozens of executions, and had got used to the rigmarole of leading and strapping in a sniffling, sobbing, sometimes screaming prisoner and unstrapping and wheeling off their limp, charred corpse half an hour later, but this time it was different – partly because Whitney was a woman, but it wasn't just that. They were frying guys at the penitentiary regularly, but judges tended to feel sorry for women – so the five women whose executions she'd been involved in previously had been seriously evil bitches, and, though she'd been somewhat ashamed of the fact, she'd wanted to see them die. But Whitney was different: her crime was not significantly less egregious than those of others she'd dealt with – although she had been unlucky to get the chair – but she genuinely seemed like an ordinary, terrified human being faced with extraordinary, unimaginable circumstances – and, moreover, she seemed to have become rather attached to Sophie. All this she'd told to Emily, and received copious sympathy and emotional support. What she hadn't told Emily, and the source of her shame, was that she wanted to see Sophie die more than she had ever wanted to see any prisoner die before. Her emotional empathy had made her somehow want to be Whitney: she would dream of the electricity coursing through her body and wake up sweating. Emily would reach over to cuddle her – but it wouldn't be terror sweat. The train had now reached the station and it took her barely five minutes to walk to the prison.


As she passed through the various ID checks on the way to the capital wing and, ultimately, the death cell, she remonstrated with herself every step of the way: here was a nice young girl – a convicted, capital murderer admittedly – but, as was surprisingly frequently the case, a pleasant enough person – and she was looking forward more than anything else to helping to drag her before a group of witnesses, strap her to a chair and electrocute her. She wondered whether Whitney ever suspected what was going on in her head – and, if she did not, how she would feel if she found out: betrayed?...angry?... disgusted?...Whatever the rights and wrongs of her feelings, a more pressing question on her mind as she walked down the endless corridors was whether or not she should speak to Whitney about the decision she would imminently have to face and offer her own advice: she felt it would be the right thing to do, but she also had her own motives that she could never, ever reveal!


As the final door slid open, revealing Whitney's waif-like, almost juvenile frame and hollow-eyed, tear-stained face, she still had not made her decision.

"Good morning, Whitney," said Sophie blankly – it always seemed like a stupid thing to say, but she had never arrived at something less so.

"Fan-fucking-tastic!" deadpanned Whitney, "I love my life, which actually makes it a pretty shit morning given that you're about to end it." Sophie had no reply, and the silence seemed deafening.

"I'm sorry," Whitney said eventually. "I know it's just your job, and I know I put myself here: I'm just freaked out at the moment." At that point, without really knowing why, Sophie decided to speak.

"That's all right," replied Sophie gently, "But you're right: it is my job – and I have seen a few women go..." Whitney noticeably flinched at the thought of the death cell's previous occupants..."And I'll offer you a piece of personal advice: the prison governor and the electrician are going to come and see you in a few minutes, and you're going to have to make a choice about your execution. I can't imagine you're dying to...that you're looking forward to meeting the electrician, but, for your own benefit, I strongly recommend you follow their advice.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" said Whitney edgily.

"Try to calm down," said Sophie. "He'll be able to answer all your questions better than I would. Just hear him out and at least think about what he has to say."

"All right, fine," said Whitney, clearly still apprehensive.


Almost on cue, Sophie's radio crackled: "The spark and the guv are just entering the block now," a voice on the other end said. "They'll be with you approx. two minutes."

Sophie lifted the radio off her belt and put in in front of her mouth pressing the "talk" button. "Roger that. Thanks," she said. Sure enough, a few moments later the governor entered in a striped suit, accompanied by the electrician.

"Hello Whitney," said the governor in his characteristically bluff, detached tone. "And how are you this morning?" Whitney, clearly lacking the mental energy for a repeat of her earlier sarcasm, simply answered, "I've been better."

"That's understandable," the governor replied nervously. "Now, Whitney: our official state electrician here, Mr William Patten, has something important to discuss with you about your execution." Whitney flinched noticeably at the mention of the word, and the sight of her killer, but soon covered her obvious anxiety with more sarcasm: "Great – just what I wanted to talk about!"

The governor fidgeted awkwardly, and the electrician stepped in in a soft, strangely mellifluous voice: "I'm sorry Whitney," he said in a soft, mellow voice: "We obviously don't want to distress you unnecessarily at this difficult time, but this is important. How much are you aware of about the procedure for execution in the electric chair?"

"I didn't know there was an awful lot to know: you strap a load of electrodes to me, turn on the current and fry me alive, right?" shot back Whitney – the deadpan tone she affected undermined by the breaking of her voice and the tears welling up in her eyes.

Mr Patten swallowed hard. "The electricity is designed to cause rapid unconsciousness," he said, "So it shouldn't feel as painful as that description might imply – but you are correct that, to achieve death, a certain amount of electrical power has to be dissipated in the brain and internal organs."

Whitney put her hands to her cheeks and gasped. "Why the fuck are you telling me this?" she almost screamed.


The electrician continued calmly: "I'm sorry, Whitney: I'm sure this must be horrible for you and we wouldn't do it if there was an alternative," he said. "To achieve an electric current through the body requires electrical connections at two points." Whitney was sobbing openly now. "The traditional electrocution protocol involves the placement of one electrode on top of the head, while the second is attached to the left leg. That's what you have been sentenced to and that's what we will do in a few hours if you don't sign the form I have with me. However, this protocol was designed for use on the male body – on which it works very well. Unfortunately, we have had some unpleasant cases when dealing with females."

Barely able to speak through her tears, Whitney cried out, "What do you mean 'unpleasant'?"

"Well," began Mr Patten awkwardly, "The leg electrode has, of course, to be simply attached to the skin. There are things we can do to assure a good electrical interface to the skin itself, but there's nothing we can do underneath the skin. The problem," he continued, shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot, "is that women carry a much thicker of fat underneath their skin than men – it's called the sub-cutaneous fat – but that doesn't matter. The point is that it doesn't conduct electricity very well, so to achieve the required electric current can require turning the voltage up very high, which can lead to severe burns on the leg and quite a lot of smoke and sizzling noises etc. as the sub-cutaneous fat starts to melt. There are also fears that it may be more painful for women than for men, and raises the risk of fire..."

"Oh, for God's sake stop!" Whitney pleaded desperately. "What alternative do I have?"

"There is an alternative electrocution protocol designed especially for women," he said. "We can use that instead if you agree to a modification of your sentence. It should reduce the risk of pain and of any unsightly damage to your body." Whitney continued to sob freely: the thought of her 'body' – even without 'unsightly damage' – was clearly not pleasant for her. "I have to ensure that you understand, however, that it will involve the placement of the second electrode..." Mr Patten paused apprehensively, " an intimate part of your body."


Whitney, seemingly numb with grief, was suddenly jerked back into full alertness: "WHAT!" she shouted, "Are you saying you're gonna shove an electrode up my cunt and fry me in front of all those people?" Sophie involuntarily squeezed her legs together at the thought of an icy metal dildo being thrust into her vagina: it was all she could do to avoid thrusting her hand down her trousers and rubbing her throbbing clitoris there and then. She immediately hoped nobody had noticed.

"I assure you," said Mr Patten softly, "You will not be exposed in any way."

Whitney thrust her head in her hands and began to sob freely again. After several minutes, which seemed like hours, during with Mr Patten and the governor kept snatching awkward glances at each other, Whitney said, out of the blue: "Give me the form!" Mr Patten was only too happy to oblige, immediately handing her the form and a ballpoint pen. Seemingly trying not to look at the form, Whitney scrawled her signature somewhere in the vicinity of the dotted line and thrust the form away. The governor hurriedly snatched it out of her hand, saying "Thank you Whitney," before both men almost ran out of the room, leaving Sophie alone with the terrified, sobbing girl. After several more minutes of uninterrupted sobs, Whitney's crying seemingly burned itself out and she returned to a calm, somewhat dazed state.

"But...why my vagina?" she said eventually through her tears.

"It's just a hole." said Sophie maternally, scarcely believing her own words.


Barely two hours later, after Whitney had made a largely-unsuccessful attempt to eat her last meal, Sophie's radio crackled once again. "We're ready," said the voice on the other end. Sophie lifted the radio to her mouth. "Roger that," she said, before turning to Whitney. "I'm sorry Whitney," she said, "I need you to come with me." Whitney, though she had surely known the time was coming, flinched like a cornered animal. "Oh God! Is it time already?" she said.

"Not just yet, but we need to begin the preparations," said Sophie, doing her best to feign calmness despite her churning emotions.

"Oh God! Please, no, don't!" Whitney babbled.

"Come on Whitney – please don't make this any harder than it has to be," she replied, laying a hand on Whitney's shoulder.

Whitney stared straight ahead, breathed deliberately several times and then, without saying a word, rose to her feet. Sophie took her handcuffs from her belt and gently but quickly cuffed Whitney's hands behind her back, ushering her to the door.


As they passed through the cell doorway, two junior female guards – Sarah and Fiona – grabbed hold of one forearm each and almost carried her to a room at the end of the long corridor. In the centre of the room sat a large, padded leather seat, rather like a dentist's chair but with spread legs and leather straps for the arms and legs. Sophie unclasped Whitney's handcuffs.

"Arms against the wall, legs spread please," ordered Sophie. Whitney complied passively. Sophie snapped on a pair of blue latex gloves and pulled down the trousers of Whitney's orange jumpsuit, followed by her panties, lifting her legs to remove them from her feet. With as little drama as possible, she spread silicone gel on the index finger of her left hand and inserted it up Whitney's anus. Whitney said nothing, but Sophie noticed her sobbing to herself. When she had completed her examination, Sophie threw the gloves into the medical waste bin beside her.

"All right, thank you," she said. "Down in the chair, please." Whitney sank down meekly, the two guards still holding her arms.

"Hold still," said Sophie, producing a pair of scissors and clipping the hair away from the crown of Whitney's head. Whitney began to sob more profusely as she saw her hair float down in front of her eyes. When Sophie had finished she shaved away the stubble, leaving a perfectly smooth, shiny patch of scalp that would provide as little obstacle as possible to the lethal current. When she had finished with her head, Sophie changed the razor blade and began to first cut, then shave away the pubic hair from Whitney's crotch, working as quickly as possible to minimize the trauma to Whitney, who continued to sob freely When she had finished, she washed away the shaving gel. Sophie nodded to Sarah, who nodded back and left the room. A moment later, she reappeared with Mr Patten following behind.


Whitney looked up and panicked at the sight of Mr Patten. "Hey, you said it wasn't fucking time yet!" she said, squirming pathetically in the chair's bonds.

"Calm down," replied Mr Patten: "It isn't time yet. It's just that, to protect your modesty, we need to insert the vaginal electrode before you enter the execution chamber." Whitney stopped squirming, although her eyes continued to dart nervously around the room as Dr Patten produced what looked like a large, hollow silver test tube and filled it with salt water from a jug. When he had finished, he inserted a more slender inner cylinder with a screw at the base, pushing the electrode down into the brine and causing its level to rise and spill over the outside of the outer tube. He snapped a clip shut, locking the two tubes securely together, before wiping off the excess brine with a cloth and rubbing the outside surface generously with conductive lubricant.

"Hold still," he said to Whitney, bending down between her legs: "This is going to feel cold." Whitney screwed up her eyes and whimpered piteously as the electrode slid smoothly into her flesh, leaving only an inch or so of electrode and the screw thread protrucing. Sophie dug her hands into her palms once again and breathed deeply: the thought of that icy object sliding inside her was so horrible and yet, despite this...or because of it, wonderful! A shiver passed down her spine. She resolved to stay in control.


"All right – stand her up," Sophie nodded to the two juniors. They immediately lifted her from the seat. "Spread your legs," said Sophie. Whitney complied listlessly – seemingly lacking the mental energy for further resistance. With Sarah holding both Whitney's arms and Fiona holding her feet, Sophie produced a special diaper with a hole surrounded by a metal ring from a drawer next to the chair and wrapped it around Whitney's pelvis, placing the back of the electrode through the hole and sealing the opening with a rubber ring. Whitney continued to whimper helplessly. When she had finished, the guards removed the top of Whitney's orange prison jumpsuit and replaced it with a turquoise one designed specifically for executions that contained a flame-retardant coating. The bottoms of jumpsuits for vaginal electrocution were also tailor made with the same metal ring at the crotch, through which the electrode was slotted, leaving just the screw thread protruding like a tiny, steel penis.


When they had completed dressing Whitney, they restrained her again. This time Sophie attached a full set of handcuffs in front, leg irons and chain joining the two – prisoners never ceased to amaze her with the strength they could muster in their panic when they first laid eyes upon the chair! Slowly, with Whitney's chains jingling with every single step and Whitney sobbing freely, they made their way down the corridor from the prep room to the death chamber. Observing Whitney's small steps – even smaller than those allowed by the leg irons – Sophie imagined what it must feel like to walk with that thick metal object inside you, and began to wonder how she could find out.


When they reached the end of the corridor, an automatic set of double doors shot back, revealing the death chamber in all its ghastly glory, with the fearsome chair at its centre. Whitney gasped at the awful sight, and Sarah and Fiona grabbed hold of her arms more tightly in case she tried to bolt. Almost immediately, Sophie walked in front of Whitney and, using a set of keys in her pocket, unfastened her handcuffs and leg irons. The other two guards then almost lifted her and dropped her into the chair before setting to work on the various straps on her arms and legs – Sarah taking the right side, Fiona the left – while Sophie fastened the straps across her torso. Mr Patten, meanwhile, set to work connecting the headpiece: first soaking a sponge in salt water, then fastening it in place at the shaven spot on the crown of her head with a buckle underneath her chin. Finally, he attached a heavy black electric cable about two centimetres thick to a screw fastening on top of the headpiece and a second such cable to the protruding screwthread between her legs. All the time, Whitney continued to sob wildly, appearing perhaps mercifully to have not taken in the details of what was going on.


After the preparations had been completed, the governor stepped forward. "Whitney Stanton: you have been sentenced to death by circuit court judge William J. Entwhistle for the murder of Jason Stanton. There have been three appeals, all denied, and the execution will now be carried out. Whitney Stanton: do you have any last words?"

"I...I'm sorry," stammered Whitney, "It was just a stupid row: things were never meant to get this fucked up..."

"I'm sorry," cut in the governor, "Last words are required not to contain obscene language. Your right to a last statement is void. Electrician, proceed with the execution." Whitney had no energy left to protest. Sophie stepped forward. "Open wide," she said, and Whitney meekly complied, allowing Sophie to place the mouthpiece between her teeth. Mr Patten slipped the leather death mask over her face and fastened the straps behind the back of the chair. With these final preparations completed, near-silence descended over the chamber as the clock swept ever-closer to the hour, punctuated only by the eerie sounds of Whitney sobbing from beneath the mask and drawing air rapidly in and out. Sophie studied her closely: her facial expression concealed by the mask, the only signs of life being the noises and the rapid rising and falling of her pert, young bosoms, she seemed less like a human being than a thing – a living corpse wired up like a battery for the specific purpose of her obliteration. Sophie simultaneously wanted to cry on the poor girl's behalf, thrust her hand down her pants to massage her throbbing clitoris and scrub herself with sandpaper to expunge her sense of shame at the conflation of the first two. But all she could do was watch and wait!


All of a sudden, a loud hum signalled the beginning of the execution. Every part of Whitney's frail body began to jitter around spasmodically, from the tips of her fingers to the soles of her feet. Despite what she had been told, and had told others, about instantaneous unconsciousness, she had an almost tangible sense of the current surging from between her legs through her own body, taking control of her muscles, burning her up from the inside. Sophie bit down on the inside of her lip, hoping no one would notice, and would mistake it for simple compassion if they did. The hum suddenly stopped and Whitney's body sank down inside the straps. One of her fingernails had dug so hard into the chair that it had broken off, drawing blood – but the flow had been cauterized almost immediately by the heat from Whitney's body. She looked at Whitney's chest and fancied she saw a slight movement – but then convinced herself it could have been her imagination.


The second shock hit, and Whitney's body once again began to jerk and shudder violently. The electrician had been proven correct in his promise that the so-called "feminine electrocution protocol" would prove less gruesome – to witness at least – than the traditional one performed on a woman, but smoke and steam could still be seen issuing from Whitney's head and crotch, and the air in the room nevertheless hung heavy with the odours of barbecued meat, urine and excrement.


After the second and third shock had been concluded, safety regulations insisted on a ten-minute wait before the body could be checked for a heart beat. When this was over and the body was checked, no pulse was found. The governor stepped forward and, addressing the witnesses, said "Ladies and gentleman, Whitney Stanton has been duly executed for the murder of James Stanton." Sophie could only imagine how Whitney's family might be reacting to those words behind the one-way mirror – which simultaneously made her feel all the more guilty at her own reaction, and made that reaction all the more intense. The body was allowed to cool further while the viewing rooms were cleared and Sarah and Fiona fetched a gurney to take the body to the morgue. As Sophie removed the death mask and unbuckled the chest straps – attempting, but not entirely succeding, to avoid tearing away scorched skin and flesh along with the leather – Whitney's head flopped forward grotesquely, her charred scalp pointing straight at her. A stream of bloody foam poured from her mouth down the front of her jumpsuit. Sophie disconnected the cables attached to Whitney's head and feet – the electrician's duties having been completed with the prisoner's death. When they had unstrapped it completely, the three women lifted the blackened corpse – still unnaturally warm – out of the oak chair and on to the waiting gurney. Finally, before wheeling the body away, Sophie unclipped the two vaginal electrodes and drew out the inner one, releasing the saline solution in a flood that spread in a dark stain down Whitney's jumpsuit and across the gurney and making it appear that Whitney had wet herself – which she almost certainly had, and worse besides, but that would have been absorbed by the diaper. The outer electrode sheath would remain in place, permanently seared into the walls of Whitney's vagina – or at least until decomposition removed her vagina altogether.


Sophie wanted Emily right then, right there...wanted to taste her warm, soft sink her fingernails into the small of her back: but how could she possibly have explained why she wanted it? She tried not to think about it and failed miserably. Looking at the electrode in her hands, she wondered whether anyone would notice if she "forgot" to put it in the bin for incineration. Disgusted with herself for even allowing the thought to cross her mind, she cast it rapidly away and grabbed hold of one corner of the gurney. "Good job ladies. Well done." she said.

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