I wrote this (complete) story a little over a year ago and posted it to ao3, /r/guroerotica and the dark spot. It just occurred to me I should post it here as well.

Unlike many, I prefer to have a vaguely plausible justification for the extreme debauchery, so there's a bit of world-building early in the story before it really gets going. Feel free to skip over that part if you want to get to the good stuff.

Enjoy.

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Burned on the Stake
Phrasing is important.

Consider the phrase: "cruel and unusual." The key word is, of course, 'and.' For a punishment to be cruel and unusual it must be both. Surely, if several other nations have adopted a certain type of punishment as standard practice, it was not all that unusual, even if it was cruel.

At least, that was how the seventeen Supreme Court justices ruled in 2074, in a ten to seven decision. Congress passed a law mandating extreme cruelty, the President signed it, and the Supreme court rubber-stamped that decision, through the flimsiest of justifications.

It didn't matter that the countries that employed such a method of execution were not Western, developed democracies like the United States. It didn't even matter that they were, in fact some of the small, absurdly corrupt dictatorships that arose after the Russian central government imploded twenty years previously. These were countries where women's rights were an even bigger joke than they had become in America, even more so than what they had been under Russia's thumb. There were also a few tin-pot dictators in South America and Africa who gleefully copied the sadistic invention of the former Russians.

The masses cheered for cruelty, and the political machinery obliged. After all, that's how democracy worked.

* * *

When twenty-two year-old Candace Linneman informed her husband, Sean, that she was going to the protest, he said no.

"It's dangerous," he told her. "I mean, meetings, okay, whatever, but these things can get violent, you know? Worse, you could get arrested."

"It's a non-violent protest," she insisted. "I know Alex, she went over how important it is not to escalate with any of the scum-bags. Non-violence only. We'll be fine."

He crossed his arms. "They're just looking for an excuse to crack down, you know. Any excuse. And it's not even just prison, feminist protesters can get the death penalty. So, no, you're not going."

"That's for violent protesters, or organizers of violent protests. I'm not going to hit anyone. I even have a personal recorder hidden in my head band right now, already started, in case they try to claim I did anything I didn't. Full audio and video. Not to mention, I didn't organize anything. Alex did all the work. She's the one really taking the risk. And, if no one shows up, that's what they really want. That's the point of those laws. Screw that. I'm going."

"No." He grabbed her arm. "You're not. I'm not losing you."

She tried to pull away, but he was stronger. For a brief moment, there was a tug of war for her arm, each pulling in opposite directions.

Then she kicked him in the balls.

Reflexively, he let go, screaming in pain and shock. No longer pulling against her, he staggered backwards, tripped on the edge of a rug and went down hard.

The sickening "crack" as Sean hit his head against the corner of the coffee table was deafening in the otherwise silent room.

"Sean? Sean!" She ran to him, but he didn't respond. Then she noticed the rapidly spreading crimson stain on the beige carpet.

Thirty minutes later, Sean was pronounced dead.

Ten minutes after that, Candace was arrested and charged with participating in a violent feminist protest, on the strength of the video recorded by her headband.

Sean died as she protested a feminist issue, her attendance at a feminist protest. Therefore, legally, it was a violent feminist protest.

As the one who arranged the original protest, Alex clearly organized Candace's attendance and subsequent defiance as well. Within a few hours of when the original, entirely-non violent protest ended, the protest that Candace was forced to skip anyway, the police came for Alex too.

* * *

A weird thing happened to identity politics in the late 2020s and early 2030s: There was a schism, a split.

Historically, there was a "big-tent" philosophy among liberal political movements, with the idea that an injustice perpetrated against one human, regardless of race, creed, sex, sexual orientation, gender identity and so forth, was an injustice against all. Human rights applied to everyone human, or so the thinking went.

There was, however, a recurring trend that perhaps had always been there but began to become more pronounced and noted by many community leaders. Women, predominantly white, privileged women seemed to consistently look for, and find ways to inject themselves and their causes into the conversation.

When African Americans protested for their right not to be beaten to death by the police, feminists found ways to turn the conversation towards keeping abortion legal.

When immigrants protested for the right not to have their children taken away from them and locked in cages, feminists tried to frame ending workplace sexual harassment as an equally pressing issue.

When police stood aside as Asian and particularly Chinese-Americans were attacked by angry mobs, weighted down and thrown into swimming pools for being "plague rats" responsible for originating not one, but two deadly plagues in the space of six years, the feminists seemed to think addressing a seven-point-five percent increase in reported date-rape was the top priority.

The big-tent strategy ended. The rest of the community moved on without the feminists.

In the following decade, the United States made record-breaking gains in stomping out white supremacy, passing comprehensive immigration reform and ensuring police forces applied the law evenly to people of different ethnicities, or at least more evenly than ever before.

On the other hand, feminists lost ground in a very big way, as their previous political allies shut them out.

"All MEN are created equal," became a favored phrase, if not a rallying cry.

Laws didn't change very much, but enforcement shifted with the social fabric, granting men more leeway and women far less. The law didn't need to cement a husband's absolute authority, if he was never prosecuted for exercising it. What good was a woman's right to a trial and to testify in court, if a man's word was always believed over hers?

The social tide turned, and women's rights were no longer seen as being a form of racial injustice, but rather, as the intellectual elites put it, an "independent social construct." After all women weren't the same as men, were they? Skin color, hair color, face shape -- these were utterly superficial things. Women, on the other hand, had different organs, different brain chemistry. They had two copies of an entire chromosome while men had one. What else, besides femininity, was caused by an extra chromosome? That was what caused Down Syndrome. How could you compare discrimination based on such fundamental biological differences to discrimination based merely on superficial skin color?

Or, so the logic went. It was so revolting, it made Candace want to puke. How was that any different than the racist propaganda spewed throughout the twentieth century? Of course, no one asked her. For one thing, she was a woman.

Some of the biggest proponents of the crackdown on women's rights were the immigrants from countries with more "traditional" values. As unprecedented numbers of immigrants were granted citizenship they were only too happy to vote to ensure their way of life was protected by the laws of the land.

Women retained the right to vote, but it was surprising how many sided with the anti-feminists. There was a large cohort of older women, predominantly those with grown male children, who pushed hard for traditional values.

When young, radical women protested this treatment, strict laws cracking down on feminist protesters, particularly any who became violent, were passed. Only after thirty years of gradual social change did the authoritarian legal framework locking in the new status quo finally emerge.

The penalty for violent feminist protest was death, but not by any traditional execution method.

Men died by lethal injection.

Women convicted of any other capital crime died by lethal injection.

Violent, radical feminists, however, were different. They were much worse, a danger to the fabric of polite society. America was determined to make an example of them. Those women who violently rejected a woman's place in society received a death uniquely tailored to the female form.

Further, once the authorities went looking for these violent criminals, it was surprising how many they found. There was typically one execution scheduled every few weeks, though this varied depending on how many convictions had taken place in the previous year or two.

Every execution of a radical feminist was live-streamed by the Federal government, free to view and record by anyone and everyone. These broadcasts served both as a warning to other women, and entertainment for those so inclined.

The entire world could watch as a criminal was burned on the stake.

Not at the stake. On the stake.

* * *

Candace stared at the stilettos that would be put to use during her execution. She wished, oh how she wished, that they were literal stilettos, sharp daggers that would mercifully end her life with a clean strike to her heart or neck.

Instead, they were shoes.

Designed by Theodore Ebon, she'd been told that a pair of Moonlit Elegance Stiletto heels such as the one before her typically retailed at $3,599.99. Unlike Candace, however, this particular pair of shoes would survive the next few hours and be auctioned off at a much higher price for having been part of her execution. They used a different high-end pair of high-heels every time, varying the model and brand of shoe so that various luxury designers could bid for the privilege of showcasing their creations for a large audience.

It would start soon. They were going to send her to Hell before she was even dead.

She'd always been sensitive... down there. She dreaded her gyno visit every year. Her mind shut down every time she tried to contemplate the horror of what was about to happen, but now the time had come, and there was no avoiding it.

They'd configured the display screen in her cell to broadcast an execution a few weeks ago, so she could see what was about to happen to her. They wouldn't let her turn off the screen, but she had climbed onto her cot, pulled the thin sheet on her bed over her eyes and ears, and tried to tune out the endless screams.

This time, she would be the one screaming.

The guards made sure she had nothing that could be used to attempt suicide and watched her closely to prevent any attempts. She had no way to end this early, no choice but to suffer what was about to happen.

The guards had roughly shaved and plucked every hair on her body below her neck. Then, they'd instructed her to shower, and to use the bathroom. It was her last shower, her last time sitting on a toilet. She would never wear any clothes again, either, other than those damned shoes.

She sat naked on a bench, toweling herself off from her shower with a small square towel made of a material sufficiently flimsy there was no way to hang herself with it.

She briefly considered taking one of the shoes and trying to stab herself with pointy heel, but then decided that was probably futile. Even though they were called 'Stilettos' the heels weren't actually that sharp. Besides, even though the guards weren't present, but she was certain they were watching via the video cameras. They would be on her in a heartbeat if she deviated from their instructions. She'd learned quickly after being thrown in prison, that it was better to follow instructions. Failure to comply meant being roughly, painfully man-handled into compliance anyway.

A man, flanked by two fit, muscular women, entered the room.

The man was handsome, clean shaven with immaculately groomed dark hair and was wearing a black tuxedo with white shirt and bow-tie. His hands were covered with white gloves.

The women wore matching black boots, tight-fitting black jeans and black sports bras that showed off impressive musculature. They were both blondes, though one had short curly hair, and the other long, straight hair. They wore black gloves, and each held a taser in one hand.

"Hello, my name is Phillip. I'll be your master of ceremonies this evening, and I wanted to introduce myself before we have to get started."

Candace sighed, resigned. "You mean you're my executioner."

"That's right," he nodded. "So, how do you want this to go?"

She blinked at that. "Excuse me? Quick and easy? Or, how about not at all?"

"No-no," he shook his head. "That's not up to me. The end result is the same no matter what, but we can make these last few minutes peaceful before we get started, or you can fight tooth and nail against my two assistants. Also, if you want, you can scream at me now in private. Get it out of your system and then cooperate, make peace as we get you ready to go.

Candace didn't want to scream and rant. She wanted to cry. "Phillip? How do you live with yourself?"

Infuriatingly, he nodded, as if he was expecting this question. "Of course. You really want an answer?"

"I'm pretty sure it's because you're a piece of shit. They fought wars to get rid of people like you, you know?"

"And what if I told you I have a high school education and a kid with a rare genetic bone disease. Ten grand a month treatments. If I didn't do this, someone else would take the job and I lose Tim."

Candace stared back at him. "So, Tim is a boy?"

He shrugged. "Yes"

"No daughters then?"

He shrugged again. "You got me there."

There was a pause in the conversation.

"Listen," he said. "Here's my promise to you. There's some things I'm going to to do, and you're not going to be having much fun. You know it, I know it. But, I promise I won't make it any worse than the law says it has to be. I'm doing this for the government paycheck, and the government benefits, not because I'm a pervert or a sadist. You cooperate, and I'll be as gentle as I can getting you prepped and plugged. We can make these last few minutes, the last few minutes you have before it gets bad, relatively peaceful. What do you say?"

That he had the audacity to refer to one of the most painful methods of execution ever devised, a punishment he was about to inflect on her, as "not having much," turned her stomach.

"Master of Ceremonies, was it?" she demanded. "It's all theater, isn't it? You've got some nerve coming back here and suggesting I go along with your performance, help your big show go smoothly. Sure you're gonna burn me on the stake, but it would just be so un-lady-like for me to cause trouble! Is that it?"

Phillip appeared entirely unphased. Her words seemed to bounce off his easy-going attitude. "I won't bother denying they like these events to be a performance. See how exposed my assistants arms and stomachs are? Generally, security wears tough, long-sleeve clothing, but the viewers like eye-candy so instead they pay the big bucks for these gals. They're wearing the eye-candy outfits, but they've got the training and skills to subdue a line-backer in under three seconds if they have to. And, believe it or not, the audience loves it if they get to show off. Whenever the flashy ninja-babes get to do their thing, that really gets the ratings up. The higher-ups are hoping you put up a fight, because it makes for a better performance. They're hoping to show off the violent radical feminist fighting like an animal, justifying all the shit they want to do, the shit you were protesting against. So, I'm here suggesting -- suggesting mind you, not telling or instructing or demanding, suggesting that this goes easier for you, and easier for your cause if you don't put up a fight."

Candace let out a slow breath. "Supposing that's all true, you're telling me this... why?"

"If you have trouble believing I'm not a selfish prick, I'd point out that I'd rather not risk the off-chance you lash out at me or my assistants. But, if you want the truth, my gals know their business and, mostly, I really don't want to hurt you any more than I already have to. God's honest truth, that's all."

It was Candace's turn to shrug. "Okay."

Philip nodded again and smiled what appeared to be a genuine smile. "Okay, then. Now, it's time to put on your heels."

* * *

Alexis Hearn watched as a guard approached her cell with a remote to reprogram the display screen.

"Just three more weeks and Hearn gonna burn!" The guard chuckled to herself. "And Big Eddie's gettin' laid tonight, too! Seein' as its your friend tonight, we wouldn't want you to miss a preview of what's comin'"

The screen itself was mounted behind thick plexiglass, protected from any tampering or destruction by inmates. Large rubber buttons could select the limited entertainment streams permitted to death-row inmates. The entertainment streams could be expanded (for good behavior) or limited (for bad behavior) with one of the remote controls the guards carried. For security reasons, the displays couldn't be reprogrammed remotely, or so the guards had informed her.

"You ever watched a burning?" The guard asked. "All the way through I mean, not one of them two minute super-cuts."

Alex glared back. "Do I look like a sick fuck to you?"

"Hell, yes. Rad-femmies are all sick fucks, y'all just haven't gotten the message through your thick skulls. That's why we make sure to deliver it, good an' hard, straight up your precious little cunts instead. But like I was sayin', most don't watch an entire burnin' from start to end. After a couple minutes the screamin' can start to get under your skin, let alone forty five minutes, an hour of that. But, it's only fair you know what to expect, since it'll be you we're all watchin' next time."

Alex shivered, as a range of emotions flowed over her.

Candace would die tonight. Candace, the bitch who's mistake condemned her to this. Candace, her friend. Candace who she hadn't communicated with, except through lawyers, since she'd been arrested. Candace, beautiful Candace who Alex had secretly crushed on for years, even though her friend was probably straight and married to a man.

But then, Candace wasn't really responsible. It was men. It was the pigs and their enablers. It was the patriarchy, that subtle but indestructible thread that wound through American culture, that forever bound every woman to one form of servitude or another.

She should forgive Candace. Now it was too late. There was no way to get a message to her before the execution began.

Nevertheless, Alex forgave her, even though Candace would never know.

"Hey, you listen'in?" The guard demanded. "I'm given you yer options here. We got Righteous Atonement, Medical Odds and Legal Ends, Dancing Melons, Dying Damsel Diatribes, and The Roasted Kitten Show. Which one will it be?"

Alex blinked. "Uh..."

The guard rolled her eyes at Alex's apparent ignorance. "The Warden wants to make sure you see and hear this, so I'm going to program your display to broadcast the proceedings downstairs in full, from start to finish. The video feeds are all public, but no one watches it raw. Lots of little players but you got your big five that do their own mashup of the camera angles, and provide a little light commentary before, after and on the side. Warden's policy is it's your choice, pick one of the freaky porno ones for all I care. Default's gonna be Odds and Ends if you just keep starin' like a gapin' fish."

Of course, Alex knew about the death streams already. They were abhorrent, obscene, but common knowledge. She hesitated because she wasn't sure which to pick.

The big five streams formed a spectrum from religious moralizing to what the guard had accurately described as "freaky porn" in roughly the same order the guard had rattled them off. Given that all condemned women were executed naked, on top of the nature of the execution method, a burning was fundamentally pornographic. It was therefore hardly surprising that a significant amount of coverage skewed that way.

Righteous Atonement was run by Christian fundamentalists whose commentary consisted of condemning the nefarious feminist sinners and praying to Jesus at every opportunity. The preachers who ran the commentary were well known for gleefully over-using the phrase "fiery pit of sin" as a way of describing the literal Hell of the Bible, and as a thinly-veiled euphemism for a condemned woman's crotch. As disgusting as the porno streams were, Alex found the level of psychotic religious fervor and entitlement far more repulsive than the death streams that played up the disturbing erotic elements of the executions.

Medical Odds and Legal Ends, or simply Odds and Ends as it was commonly dubbed, ran commentary focused on the details of the crime that got each woman condemned. Then, after the execution began, they brought in medical experts to evaluate the physical condition of the condemned's body and proximity to death at a given moment throughout the process. They had a supplementary betting site that brokered wagers on the progress of an execution and the exact moment of death.

Dancing Melons was straight-up porn. The hosts were two sisters with large breasts who broadcast the show completely naked. Their on-air personas were that of air-headed bimbos. Comments ranged along the lines of "Oh my, that must sting, I know I'm really sensitive down there!" to the classic "She's sure got a set of pipes on her!" as a woman died in agony. This last comment usually got a reply from the co-host along the lines of: "I know! I don't think I've made that much noise since I broke up with my ex-boyfriend Raul and his ten inch cock! Raul, if you're out there, be a sweetie and gimme a call sometime!" Alex's interpretation of the show's success was that by downplaying the horror taking place, the naked co-hosts implicitly gave permission to the viewer to enjoy the nudity of the condemned, to perhaps pretend those shrieks were the vocalization of erotic delight rather than extreme pain. Or, perhaps Alex was overthinking it, ascribing emotional depth to barbaric men who wanted nothing more than to see big, naked tits.

The hosts of Dying Damsel Diatribes or Triple-D, were a husband and wife team of semi-retired BDSM porn stars. Unlike the hosts of Dancing Melons, they were both well-spoken, and while their attire was frequently provocative, nudity was primarily limited to the woman being put to death. While Dancing Melons played up the eroticism of the naked body and downplayed the nature of the broadcast as a horrific, painful execution, Triple-D catered to the sado-masochists who found the pain and suffering of the condemned to be erotic in and of itself. In their long history of making adult videos the hosts' gimmick had been a willingness to do anything and everything, especially and including the more extreme kinks, but only with each other. As such, they knew their way around the pain and pleasure centers of the human body. Triple-D didn't merely offer viewers implicit permission to ignore the horror of an execution, but to revel in it. They made money advertising both their own adult videos, and various sex toys during their execution live-streams.

The Roasted Kitten Show was fucked up, plain and simple, even by the standards of a live-stream covering an execution. While its numbers were slightly lower than the other four of the big five, the size of its viewership attested to the staggering level of depravity out there. Like Triple-D, it too catered to the sado-masochists, and in particular those who were also part of the furry community. It wasn't so much commentary, as a cartoon that ran before and split-screen alongside the execution. The humanoid, cartoon animals of Sunshine Glade were always catching "misbehaving rascals" in their midst, and saw fit to burn their own criminals in the same way the humans did in their far off city on "Burning Day." Animation of one resident of Sunshine Glade being burned on the stake for some trivial offense was broadcast side-by-side with the real condemned woman experiencing the same treatment. The animation of the dying cartoon character was partially randomized and delegated to computer so not even the show-runners knew exactly how long the final animation would run, which led to Odds and Ends running a betting pool where real people bet real money on the progress of the animated, cartoon executions.

As far as Alex was concerned, Righteous Atonement was straight out, even the kittens would be better than the religious whack-jobs. And, no, she was absolutely not going to pick the kittens either. The problem with Odds and Ends was that they'd be talking about what Candace did. Not only would they be talking up and justifying how Candace got railroaded, they'd be mentioning her too. Fuck no, she did not want to hear that. That left the non-furry erotic-themed shows, which were, of course, both disgusting. On the other hand, they were all disgusting. The whole institution was a crime against humanity. Yet, she had to pick.

"Fine, fine, put on Damsel, er, Triple-D then," Alex told the guard. Yes, they embraced the execution as entertainment, but on some level, didn't everyone who was watching this thing do it because it was entertainment? Because the darker side of human nature wanted to see it? It was so fucked up, but there was a certain honesty there, an honesty that was lacking from the infuriating air-head brigade on Dancing Melons.

"Oh, hah! You really are a sick fuck perv, then!" The guard laughed. "I knew it! Or is it true that Letitia is secretly a rad-femmie man-hater? That's what they say, since the way I hear it, while she's wearin' the nipple clamps in half her old vids, but she's puttin' 'em on Carl in the other half. Never went lezzie, though. You know her maybe? Maybe you got a thing for chocolate, and have a secret lezzie crush on your rad-femmie hero, hmm? Is that it?"

"Fuck you," Alex spat.

"Hah! Not my job," the guard laughed, before turning to leave. "That's Big Eddie's job, in three weeks. So you pay attention, now!"

The screen lit up with stylized white lettering on a simple black background that read "Dying Damsel Diatribes" with "Execution Countdown: 00:00:07:43" in smaller lettering below. Second by second, the counter ticked away, rapidly approaching zero.

"Welcome, welcome, welcome! This is Triple-D, the Dying Damsel Diatribes!" a cheery woman's voice rang out, as the picture shifted. "I'm Letitia."

"And I'm Carl." A man's voice chimed in.

Letitia, a smiling African-American woman with titanic breasts sat with her legs crossed on a burgundy-colored couch next to Carl, an attractive man with pale skin and dirty blond hair. They both looked to be in their late twenties or early thirties. They both wore black.

Carl wore an all-black suit with a black shirt, black pants, black socks, black shoes and a black tie. What little clothing covered Letitia's body consisted of a scandalously tight black dress which revealed extensive cleavage along with the faint outline of her nipples. The dress was sufficiently short that if she uncrossed her legs viewers would almost certainly be able to tell whether she was wearing any panties.

Actually, Letitia was really rather attractive. It wasn't merely her figure, it was her confidence, her bearing. It was also the way she opened the broadcast instead of her husband, and the bitchy guard's suggestion she might be sympathetic to the feminist cause. If she weren't hosting one of these degenerate death streams, Alex wouldn't kick her out of bed. Or maybe any woman wearing an outfit with some amount of style, rather than drab prison clothes started to seem attractive at this point. It had been years.

"You all out there excited for tonight?" Letitia asked.

"Of course they are," Carl grinned back at his wife. "I sure am! Candace Linneman, Caucasian, twenty three, brown hair, trim, athletic build. Quite a looker, isn't she?"

A picture of Alex's friend and long-time crush, one taken before her arrest in which she wore a revealing pink bikini, appeared beside the video of the hosts. Alex, herself had taken that picture a little over three years ago. She had, in fact, masturbated to it. Frequently.

"Not much of a chest though, though," Letitia commented. "She's gotta be, what, a B-cup, tops?"

"True," Carl nodded, "But look at that perfect bubble-butt! Besides, not to get ahead of ourselves here, but next time, in three weeks, it's going to be Linneman's partner in crime, Alexis Hearn, a genuine curvy Irish red-head with freckles and knockers almost as big as yours!"

Letitia sniffed. "Almost. Though we'll have to wait for three weeks."

Alex's cheeks burned red. She did not want to hear about herself. It was bad enough that she had to watch her friend die like this, that she would soon die like this too. Also, wasn't this show supposed to be the one whose hosts weren't airheads? They were talking about her breasts like teenage boys in a locker room!

"Now, I will say," Letitia went on, "for those of you who have any moral qualms about this whole institution of violent rad-femmie executions, tonight you can rest easy. This girl didn't scratch a police officer's arm with her nails. Oh, no. Her husband tried to prevent her from going to a rad-femmie protest. She killed him for it. Actually, she kicked him in the family jewels first, and then killed him for it. Candace Linneman put her crazy ideas not only before her marriage, but her husband's life. His name was Sean Linneman. No doubt about it either, she confessed right away. I think we can all agree she deserves what she's got coming. We're all better off without this one."

Alex was simultaneously infuriated and unsurprised by this assessment. Even though Sean's death had obviously been an accident, the media narrative downplayed that angle. In court the prosecution argued that it didn't matter whether the death was accidental, the kick to Sean's groin qualified the attack as a deliberate, violent, radical feminist act. However, since the possibility of an accidental death wasn't as dramatic, most coverage of the trial completely glossed over that important detail.

"Definitely not," Carl agreed with his wife. "But, before we get much further, I think it's time for the disclaimer."

"Right," Letitia said. "Listen up, my fellow kinksters. I know some of you are ready to puke from hearing this over and over. We go over this before every single show because it matters. Because it saves lives. It might save yours. Of the big five we're the only one that talks about this, but if you ask me everyone else should do it too."

"You're all here to watch Candace Linneman die tonight," Carl said matter-of-factly. "A lot of us in the community are turned on by a beautiful naked woman in pain, and that's okay. Candace Linneman will die no matter what you do, and there's nothing wrong with finding some pleasure in what's about to happen. But--"

There was so much wrong with that, as far as Alex was concerned. So, so much.

"But!" Carl exclaimed. "But, Candace Linneman has been convicted and sentenced to be burned on the stake by the Federal Government of the United States of America. The appeals have been filed and rejected, the 'i's have been dotted and 't's have been crossed. As a Federally mandated execution, what's about to happen to her is neither safe or consensual. It is only sane because she was given a fair trial administered by the Federal government and convicted by a jury of her peers. This is real life, not BDSM role-play. A lot of you like to, ahem, play along, as it were. We're here to remind you, the viewers, that none of you are Federal executioners, and no court has handed any of you a death sentence. Be responsible. Tonight and always, keep your own activities safe, sane and consensual."

"You have no idea how often people, especially those of you really into breath play, accidentally commit suicide during these executions," Letitia said. "Never mind it's a burning not a hanging. Yes, breath play is fun, Carl and I've explored it plenty, but you need to be careful. We have a whole section of our site dedicated on how to be safe, but it doesn't do much good if no one reads it! So, so often, we hear about near-death experiences from people who think, 'I'll breathe when she's finally dead, she's almost done.' Spoiler alert: She's going to last a while. A burning takes time. That's the whole point. She is going to be in agony for a long, long time. You can't go without breathing for forty-five minutes to an hour. Don't try. You're going to get hurt, or die. Then, we take the flak because we're the kinky BDSM stream."

"Usually, it turns out they were watching Atonement." Carl added. "Which is why we talk about this, and why everyone else should too. Deep down, everyone watching Candace tonight is getting off on it. We're the ones who own up to that, and want all of you to go about it safely."

"An hour is a long time," Letitia said. "A lot of activities that are fine in small doses can be very dangerous if you go that long. Don't try to whip, cane, flog or even spank someone for that entire time. If you're going that route, do one stroke every minute rather than anything continuous. You also need to be really careful that you're using bondage equipment that doesn't cut off or restrict blood flow for that length of time. Maximum time on nipple clamp application is thirty minutes, and fifteen for the ones with stronger springs. Err on the side of caution, and don't go over fifteen minutes on any sort of clamp. Be careful, and always, always, always use safe words with your partner!"

Carl nodded emphatically "If you're sure you want to do a scene that lasts for the whole execution, we recommend focusing on tease and denial, forced orgasms, or a combination of the two. You're not likely to die from blue balls, or coming once too often, but extreme denial or post-orgasm torture can get really intense. Have your partner hold a magic wand against your cock or clit when the execution starts, and chances are you're going to safe-word long before Candace gives up the ghost. Letitia and I have some experience with this, search the videos in our catalog for "orgasm denial" and "post-orgasm torture" to see just what I'm talking about."

"Oh my god! That time you strapped me to a Sybian for an hour, I thought I was going to die!" Letitia exclaimed.

Carl grinned an evil grin. "Hah! Your eyes were bugging out of your head by the end, there. But you didn't safe-word out."

"You almost did, though. Remember?" It was Letitia's turn to grin. "One shoot, five ejaculations, however long it took. We did it in one long shot, one camera angle to prove we didn't splice it together. I didn't stop moving that little squishy silicone stroker over your cock for almost an hour and half, until I got those five orgasms out of you. And then, at the end, you told me if it had been six, you would have safe-worded out right then?"

"Yup," Carl nodded. "After that, I told you, the most I'm ever willing to do in a single take is three. That's my limit, realistically."

"Yeah, but I musta come, what, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five times on that Sybian?" Lititial countered. "Probably more. How is that fair?"

"The reality of the male refractory period," Carl insisted. "And, just so all you know, our website is a fully authorized reseller of multiple popular brands of magic wands, male strokers and motorized sex toys. We sell every toy we've ever used in one of our videos so long as it's still being manufactured, and we only sell high quality products we're willing to use ourselves, and feature in our videos."

The web address scrolled across the bottom of the screen as he spoke.

"But, that's enough of a shameless plug for now," Letitia said. "We sell the good shit. You know it, everyone knows it, check it out if you're as kinky as we are and have the cash. End of story. But now, it looks like it's Candace Linneman's story that's about to end. The video from the prison just went live, so it looks like they're just about ready to start the execution."

* * *