“So what did you think of that kids?” I said as we walked.

“That was a great punch Dad!” my teenage son replied.

“I don’t like seeing people getting hurt,” said my daughter. “Bullies do that sort of thing to some of my friends at school.”

“Ah, but it’s not bullying in this case you see — it’s justice. The government has given these rebels a fair trial and found them guilty. For the good of society they must be seen to be punished and I think it’s good that society now has ways to do that — bringing back public executions for example. Everyone gets to see justice done, and in this case have a hand in it if they want, and they are regularly reminded of the perils of being a criminal, rather than forgetting when criminals are merely whisked off to prison, out of sight and out of mind.”

“I want to go on the Waltzer,” my daughter replied simply. I think my longwinded explanation went over her head!

“Okay, darling, you three do that and I’ll wait for you in that circus tent over there. I get dizzy on spinning rides – hell; I got a bit woozy just watching Daisy spin!”

There was quite a crowd in the circus tent, and I was only able to stand at the back. But since everyone was looking up it didn’t matter. What they were looking at was a young woman in a shiny blue sequined leotard up on a platform around one of the tent poles, clearly about to do her high wire act across to the platform on the opposite side of the ring.

She looked very serious as she prepared to walk, and no wonder as there was a thirty foot drop to the ring and I couldn’t see a safely net.

As the music swelled and she began to move, I noticed something else: What I first took to be a safety cable around her waist was in fact secured around her neck.

“Wow, that’s some bravery just for an act!” I exclaimed.

“It’s no act,” said the woman next to me. “You came in late. They told us that she is a rebel spy. If she makes it across the ring, she’ll be free to go home. They call it the ‘Walk of Freedom’ — she’ll be free one way or the other.”

The girl was doing well for a novice, holding out her arms for balance, the ‘safety’ cable trailing behind her from a wire above as she walked. The crowd hushed as she gained confidence and made it two thirds of the way across the wire.

Suddenly there was a loud pop from a child’s balloon in front of me. The distraction was enough — the girl lost balance, fell a few feet and the steel safety cable tightened around her neck.

Panicking, she put her hands up to try to loosen it, but it was too late. Her legs soon stopped thrashing and she spun limply from the cable, struggling to breathe.

My wife tapped me on the shoulder just as the music ended. “What did we miss in here?”

“A rather novel high wire act, but I expect there’ll be clowns on next,” I replied.

But what came on instead were a couple of mimes, who acted out the whole high wire ‘act’ again in a comical way, drawing many laughs from the crowd as one mime stood directly behind the other and burst a balloon over his head.

As we walked out I mused over the nature of coincidences, it being the same style of balloon that the child in front of me had held.

“Let’s go on the Dodgems Dad,” said my son, quickly pulling me across from the circus tent to the queue opposite. They were just starting to load riders for the next cycle, so we paid and got into our cars.

“That’s cool son, they don’t have that stupid ‘No Bumping’ rule sign up like most funfairs do — I mean, these are called Bumper Cars for a reason! I’ll race you around the arena for three laps; winner gets a large ice cream sundae!”

When the music started and the cars became energised we lined up our cars next to each other and my son counted down: “Three, two, one, go!” Except the little bugger went on ‘one’, before I could even touch the accelerator!

I managed to catch up almost right away though, as when he took the first corner his car got rammed by another into the perimeter barrier. As I passed him I called out, “That sundae’s mine, cheat!”

But the sundae and the race went out of my mind as soon as I took the next corner — in front of my car, coming out of nowhere, stood a frightened girl in her late teens, naked as the day she was born. I swerved to avoid her on reflex, and went straight into the barrier just like my son had.

Now stationary, and rubbing my neck after the whiplash, I looked around to see the girl dodging between all the cars, running to get to the other side of the arena. But as she tried to climb over the perimeter barrier she was hit with a baseball bat to the chest and, winded, fell over back into the arena.

The beefy man who hit her looked military, but was in plain clothes. I now noticed three more guys with bats posted at each corner of the arena had stood up to look at the action, and realised the girl was supposed to be trapped in here with us.

I shouted to my son, “Another rebel girl! New plan son, let’s see who can run her down first!”

The girl had staggered to her feet and was running again, but by now most of the riders had seen her and wanted to join in the fun. They deliberately drove at her and she had several close calls.

As she sprinted along the perimeter of the arena to avoid a family in three cars chasing her in parallel, my son took the initiative, positioning his car in the middle of the arena and aiming it at the barrier. With the girl glancing behind her at her pursuers he pushed hard on the accelerator, sweeping her into the barrier.

As her legs were crushed by the car she screamed and the back of her head hit the barrier. She fell dazed over the car as my son reversed.

Of course, the rubber bumpers on these cars can’t do too much damage by design, and as she recovered she began to crawl away, the back of her head wet with blood.

But the cars now had the advantage, and started playing football with her, pushing her over again and again, not giving her enough time to stand between shots.

This frenzy went on for several minutes as we all took it in turns to knock her down and laugh at her misfortune. Eventually she became exhausted and just lay down crying with her hands to her head.

“Shall we take this up a notch?” I asked the man in the next car.

“Yeah, let’s finish her,” he replied.

I reversed a little way, pushed the accelerator hard, and leaned as far back in the car as I could. As expected this was enough to help the car wheels ride over the girl’s legs, and I stopped immediately, trapping her legs under the car. She wailed in pain as blood began to pool under my car, and the other riders took it in turns to smash their cars into her head and body.

When the music stopped, signalling the end of the ride, I and many of the other riders took out our phones to record the aftermath. I hoped my wife had recorded the action from outside the arena too.

My son and I high-fived, and as we made our way out of the arena, the cleaners made their way in with buckets and mops.

“After all that excitement I need a break,” I said to my wife. “Let’s sit down at those picnic tables over there. Sundaes all round, what do you say?”

“Yes please, yummy!” said my daughter.

While my wife got the ice creams I congratulated my son. “Your strategy worked out great, well done. It felt good, didn’t it?”

“It sure did!” he replied, “I loved seeing the terror in her eyes… is that bad though?”

“No, son, men need to feel these primal sensations now and again, it’s in our nature.” My daughter was quiet, and a bit disturbed I think.

While we were eating our sundaes I could see a small group of people beyond the picnic tables crowding around and cheering. I resolved to go and have a look at what was occurring once we were done.

“I got some good footage of the Dodgems,” said my wife.

“I wish you hadn’t,” said my daughter, “I don’t want to watch that again at home.”

Attempting to cheer her up I said, “How about you three go and try out the darts game over there and see if you can win a teddy or something.”

As they moved off, I sidled over to see what the group of people were doing. They were standing around a low platform with an A-board beside it that read simply ‘Have Fun!’ and below that in smaller text ‘Free protection available’.

Up on the platform I could see a man who was certainly having fun. A naked teenage girl was on her back with her legs spread wide, held down by a few of the people in the crowd.

Her wrists were shackled to the platform, so she couldn’t leave, but had the freedom to move around on the platform if she wanted to. But it looked like she’d long ago given up trying, and was just staring out looking at nothing in particular. Perhaps she’d served many men this evening and had lost the will to fight back.

After the man gave out a grunt and came inside her, he pulled out and was quickly pushed aside by another man. This man pulled a free condom from the dispenser at the side of the platform, rolled it over his cock and got up on the platform.

“I prefer the back entrance,” he announced, and the crowd lifted the girl’s legs in the air, pulling them back as far as they could go.

At this she cried out, “Please, no, don’t,” and the man replied, “Anal virgin eh? This will be amazing!”

She tried to rise but the crowd quickly grabbed her arms and pushed her back down onto the platform.

The man put his cock against the girl’s arse and looked around.

“It’s a shame they didn’t provide any free lube. Oh well.”

He began working his cock into the girl’s arsehole as she grimaced. Once it was in a few inches, he began grinding slowly, gradually inserting more of his cock as tears welled up in the girl’s eyes. Once he had most of his cock in, he grabbed her legs and began moving more forcefully, with the blood that appeared around his cock acting as lubricant. With each thrust the girl gave a shriek and shed more tears.

For around ten minutes most of us in the crowd had one hand ‘in their pocket’ as we encouraged the man to go faster. He wasn’t the only one to cum I’m sure!

When the man came down from the platform, a woman in the crowd pointed over beyond the circus tent.

“You know, there’s a boy on another platform over there, if you fancy more arse,” she told him.

“Oh, thanks for that, I’ll go have a look,” the man replied appreciatively, strolling off.

I could watch this all evening, I thought, but decided it was best to get back to the wife and kids.

Approaching my family I was amazed to find my kids laughing as they threw darts — not at a dart board, though there was one available for practise, but at a couple of naked teenagers manacled to red wooden boards bordered by white lamps. The signs on these boards read ‘Deadly Darts’.

“I thought you disapproved of this, darling?” I questioned my daughter.

“Well… I do… But Dad, these two are Eliza and Josh, the kids who were bullying my friends at school. The man over there,” she gestured to the barker, “told us they were arrested a fortnight ago. I wondered why they disappeared from school.”

“See, girls can get that primal urge too,” I replied with a smile.

“Show me your best shots then kids,” I said, rubbing my hands together and turning to face the rebels. My wife paid for two more ends of arrows and dished them out.

Eliza and Josh looked at us with anger in their eyes. They were having a bad time, light trickles of blood running down their bodies from innumerable dart holes, but they weren’t yet so drained as to be hanging from the silver restraints around their necks.

My daughter threw first, stepping up to the oche about eight feet from Eliza.

“These ones are for my friend Ginny,” she spat at Eliza before throwing her first dart.

Eliza reflexively closed her eyes and breathed through clenched teeth as the dart lodged in her upper arm. She obviously didn’t want to give my daughter the satisfaction of a scream.

The second dart landed at a slight angle over Eliza’s ribcage and bounced out, falling to the ground and leaving only a scratch. Eliza opened one eye, and then grinned at my daughter.

Rattled by this failure my daughter took time to adjust her stance for her final throw. Eliza closed her eyes again, but it didn’t matter.

“Bullseye!” I shouted. “Well… girlseye really.”

Eliza couldn’t suppress a scream this time, and everyone turned to look at the dart protruding from her left eye socket.

“Help, please, please take it out,” she pleaded, trying to move her hands towards her face, in her panic forgetting that she was manacled.

“Not yet,” said my son with excitement, “it’s my turn first.”

While Eliza squirmed and sobbed my son threw his first dart at Jake. It was a clean, firm shot, and the dart found its way between Jake’s ribs into his right lung causing him to gasp in pain. The second dart followed the first, a little nearer to Jake’s heart.

“Going for the treble?” I asked my son.

“Did you know he touched my friend Janet without her permission?” said my daughter, turning to my son. “It would be poetic justice if he paid the price for that.”

My son was happy to oblige, forgoing his treble. The third dart skewered Jake’s cock near the base, and he wailed in agony, it being the most sensitive part of his body.

“This is the best part,” my son said grinning as they went over to remove their arrows. “We get to play!”

He took his time wiggling the arrows in Jake’s chest before slowly removing them and watching Jake’s reaction. Then he grabbed the arrow in Jake’s cock and forced it further in. Jake’s howls were immense, but his cock also couldn’t help but harden at the sensation.

As he wiggled the arrow my son got close to Jake’s face and whispered, “This turns you on doesn’t it Jake? Well, make the most of it; you’ll never get to put that cock in a girl.”

He yanked the arrow and blood began dripping copiously down Jake’s cock onto the ground.

My daughter picked up her fallen arrow and plucked the one from Eliza’s arm. Then she pretended to remove Eliza’s eye by slowly and gently levering the arrow embedded in her eye socket.

As Eliza squealed and swore, my daughter whispered to her, “That one was for me.”

As we walked away past the barker, I asked him, “What’ll happen to these two when the funfair closes for the night?”

“Oh, they’ll be cleaned up, don’t you worry,” he chuckled. “Make-up does wonders. We need them to look their best for the Walk of Freedom tomorrow in the circus.”

“Shall we all take a ride on the Ghost Train?” I asked everyone. I had earlier noticed that the queue was extremely long, but by now I knew that this was going to be no ordinary Ghost Train.

Despite their spooky façades, Ghost Trains seldom feature any ghosts inside, and this one was no exception. In fact it turned out to be more of an educational ride.

When we finally got through the queue and paid the admission fee we sat down in a train and our journey began. The big black outer doors opened inwards onto a mock stone wall upon which was mounted a rough wooden sign reading ‘Punishments Through the Ages’.

As it got darker the train turned into the first scene, a medieval dungeon constructed from the same mock stone, lit only by light entering a small horizontal slit window above head height to the right of the scene and two silk flame sconces fixed to the wall behind us.

A family of three, wearing rags around their privates, were strung up by their wrists with ropes attached to a wooden bar running across the ceiling.

The teenage girl and her mother both had their heads bowed and eyes closed, trying to block out the pain felt in their shoulders. But the father’s eyes followed our train sullenly as we made our way slowly along the track.

We were gawping, taking in the cruelty of their predicament, when suddenly my daughter shrieked in surprise. I flinched, and then looked at what she had seen — not a ghost, but monk in a dark brown tunic who had silently emerged from the shadows behind the teenage girl.

She knew what was coming, and screwed up her eyes in anticipation. The monk raised his brown leather whip and lashed her back with a satisfying crack.

As the girl cried out in pain the monk returned to the shadows and our train exited the scene and turned sharply into the next one.

“That’s how you do a jump scare!” I whispered to my wife, impressed.

After moving though strips of blackout fabric our train came upon a curved backscene depicting a town square somewhere in middle-age Europe. Cut-out figures of a crowd shouting and cheering were arranged in front of it around the centre of the scene where a topless woman in her late thirties with untidy brunette hair was manacled with her hands above her head to a sturdy wooden stake. She was sweating profusely, her ample bosom heaving as she breathed.

Stacked all around her up to her waist were the sticks of a gigantic bonfire, and as we took this in, bright orange and yellow light began to flicker from within the stack and flames were projected onto the bonfire from three sides. The sound of the fire crackling was mixed in with the crowd noise over hidden speakers.

Even though it wasn’t a real bonfire, it was a very effective simulation and the witch howled with pain. When I saw a little smoke rising and smelt burning meat, I realised she wasn’t acting: Hidden inside the bonfire there must have been heat guns aimed at her legs and feet.

The bonfire went out after about five seconds and our train continued on to the next scene, my son holding his nose because he didn’t like the smell.

What a contrast the setting for the next scene was: A clinical room in a modern American prison visible to us through a trio of white-framed Plexiglass windows.

We were there to witness the execution of an old man strapped with leather to a wooden chair, electrodes attached to his legs and a wired cap on his bald head.

The strip lights flickered and there was a loud electric buzzing sound — all for effect of course — but we saw sparks fly from the man’s legs as he endured the shock from the Tasers, which I surmised those electrodes were actually connected to out of sight.

“At least you can’t smell this one!” I whispered to my son, nudging him as our train travelled onto the next scene.

Another backscene greeted us, this time depicting the beautiful countryside outside the walls of a Roman town. To give the scene some depth, a real gate was set into a mock stone wall erected with forced perspective in such a way that it all seamlessly blended into the photographic wall of the backscene. To the right of this there was a real wooden crucifix, to which a naked teenage boy with short curly black hair was affixed, moaning with his tearful eyes firmly closed, as if he was trying to meditate his way out of his suffering.

The attention to detail, usually lacking in recreations of crucifixion, was admirable. There were even a few stuffed crows perched on the wall awaiting the boy’s demise.

The boy hung from rough square nails hammered though his wrists and his feet were nailed to the stipes with his legs slightly bent. In this position he was able to ‘dance’ on the cross for us, slowly shifting his weight from his wrists to his feet and back time after time in an attempt alleviate the pain, even for a moment.

I knew he would dance until he ran out of energy. He certainly wouldn’t bleed to death, as his executioners had made sure to place their nails correctly to avoid excessive blood loss. Eventually he would hang by his wrists, struggling to breathe until he could breathe no more.

My daughter looked up at him with fascination, her eyes darting all over his body, perhaps aroused by his handsome cock and smooth chest.

Too soon our train moved onto the next scene, and we were transported to a souk in modern-day Saudi Arabia. Amongst all the pots, pans, clothes and fake food in this little recreation of a narrow market street was a basket of stones. A prominent sign in Arabic and English invited us to ‘Help Yourself’.

We quickly took some stones and passed them to each other before the train turned sharply into a small open square where an unfortunate girl wearing a hijab was buried up to her head in the sandy ground, bruised and bleeding, surrounded by stones.

“You know what to do, kids!” said my wife and we all threw our stones as hard as we could at the girl’s head.

Only a few of the stones hit her though, as it was actually quite hard to hit such a small target from a moving train.

“I got her!” said my daughter.

“You liar!” replied my son, hitting her in the arm, “Only Dad and I scored!”

“Now, now, settle down you two,” I chided.

By now our train had turned a corner yet again and we were back in Europe. This time the backscene was of a chaotic French city with towering buildings, horses and market carts. Another angry cut-out crowd waved real tricolour flags, blown by unseen fans in the ceiling.

Madam La Guillotine had pride of place in the centre of the scene, and for the first time our train stopped so that the front and side of the guillotine remained in view.

Bent over the guillotine with her head in the pillory and leather straps around her arms, midriff and legs was a lovely aristocratic young lady in a fancy white dress. She looked over at us, and then back down to the little basket in front of her with trepidation.

Just then the roar of the imaginary crowd grew louder as drums began to pound. After the third round of drumming the blade was released to cheers from the crowd.

But just as the blade neared the lady’s neck all the lights went out, plunging the scene into darkness. As we heard the blade slice through her neck, and the thump of her head falling into the basket, we felt droplets of blood splashing on our skin and cried out in alarm!

The train immediately started to move again and rounded the final corner where a set of outer doors opened and we were returned to the loading station.

We were a bit shook up, as based on the earlier scenes we had expected the execution to be genuine. But as we stood to get off the train we smiled at each other and expressed our eagerness to go around again. I understood now why the queue was so long.

Walking down the exit steps and wiping the fake blood from our faces, we stopped to take in the notice posted there, complete with headshots:

---

Today’s cast, in order of appearance:

• James Morton (condemned). Lily Morton (public humiliation). Agnes Morton (3rd degree public torture). Fred Knowles (monk).
• Maisie Lister (2nd degree public torture).
• Frank Anderson (1st degree public torture).
• Simon Smith (condemned).
• Maryam Siddiqui (condemned).
• Abigail Lister (public humiliation).

---

It was now late evening and the funfair was due to close in around half an hour. As we walked past the Wheel of Pain I asked the barker how Daisy was doing.

“She’s been up there all evening,” he replied.

“Really? No one’s landed on Fuck?” I could see that the red segment was a bit smaller than most of the others, but surely there was still a roughly one-in-nine chance of it coming up.

“Oh, a guy got it, but as Daisy was upside down he wanted to use her mouth, so we left her up there.”

“A bit dangerous, wasn’t it?”

“We fitted a bit to force her mouth open of course; we’re all about health and safety here!”

“I’d like to try a spin,” said my wife, handing over a five pound note and turning to me, “Why should you have all the fun tonight — I saw you with your hand in your pocket earlier!”

I turned away a little embarrassed. How’d she see that from that distance?

We moved closer and I think Daisy recognised us, though she was very much worse for wear now, with bruises from the cane and punches she’d endured, and oozing cuts from the whip and the knife all over her body, arms and legs.

My wife spun the wheel and Daisy groaned as it came to a stop on a green segment with her returned almost upright. By now she knew what was in store for her just by her orientation.

“Needle!” declared the barker, handing my wife a sturdy six inch long needle with a black plastic handgrip. “You can pierce her skin anywhere except on her face and pussy.” He sounded bored now, having repeated variants of those words all evening.

My wife looked Daisy up and down appraising her, noting the soreness of her nipples where no doubt clamps had earlier been attached and torn off.

“I mean, I have to, don’t I?” she said, addressing Daisy playfully. “As a woman I can imagine how much this will hurt.”

She caressed Daisy’s left nipple and then grasped her budding tit in her left hand.

“Please miss, can’t you stab me in my arm? I’ve been though so much pain tonight,” Daisy pleaded in what she hoped was a sweet winning voice.

“Wow, our little rebel has changed her tune!” I said, “Now that it suits her of course. No, my wife paid for you to suffer, and suffer you will. Go on love.”

“Well fuck you both then, cunts,” Daisy spat, back on form.

My wife looked back into Daisy’s eyes and began forcing the needle through her supple skin. Daisy closed her eyes and bit her lip awaiting the pain. The needle wasn’t really that sharp though and it took my wife a surprising amount of effort to push it all the way through her tit. All the while Daisy let out high-pitched moans and tears leaked from her eyes.

“Leave the needle in dear,” I said, handing over another five pounds to the barker, “I want another chance to win that whipping. One more spin for luck!”

My wife and I swapped places on the platform and I gave Daisy my final spin of the evening. She came to rest almost upside down on the narrower red segment.

“Congratulations sir! You get to fuck her!” shouted the barker with elation, turning between me and the remaining crowd, which had thinned considerably by this time of the evening.

In a lower voice he added, “It’s quite convenient actually as we’re just closing, so the soldiers were coming to take her down anyway.”

Back in his louder voice he addressed the crowd: “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, the funfair is now closing. But do come back tomorrow when we’ll have a fresh contestant eager to endure the Wheel of Pain!”

As I stepped off the platform the barker said to me, “You’ll have thirty minutes with her in the tent behind the wheel.”

My wife joined us and I said sheepishly, “Are you okay with this dear? I was really hoping to get Whip.”

“You’re welcome to take the whip with you,” said the barker. “We’re not worried what happens to her now; she’ll end up in ‘Punishments Through the Ages’ tomorrow anyway.”

“In that case, I’d really like to sit in, if that’s ok. The kids can wait outside,” said my wife.

We turned to watch as the soldiers reappeared and unclipped Daisy’s manacles from the wheel. As soon as her wrists were released she fell down, her limbs unable to support her, and she put up no resistance.

The solders carried her to the tent and we followed them, my wife picking up the whip as we passed the rack of torture instruments.

Inside was a simple metal bed with eyelets around its perimeter.

“How’d you like her sir?” asked one of the soldiers.

“Eh, spread-eagled on her back will be fine, thanks,” I replied.

The soldiers secured her manacles to the eyelets as instructed and as they left one of them pointed out the box by the door. “Complementary,” he said.

Picking up one of the silver packets from the box I looked at my wife.

“Well, this is unexpected. We can do anything we like now!” I said.

“Kill me,” muttered Daisy.

“Anything except that — perhaps you didn’t hear the barker; you’re wanted for tomorrow’s entertainment.”

Eying the whip in my wife’s hand I said, “You want to whip her too, yes?”

“You bet!” she replied.

“Okay, how about I whip her first, then you can whip her as I fuck her?”

My wife nodded enthusiastically and I took the whip from her, positioning myself at the side of the bed.

“Please, haven’t you all tortured me enough tonight? Have some mercy, won’t you?” moaned Daisy.

“No, Daisy, as I explained to my daughter earlier, justice needs to be seen to be done, and I’m sure you didn’t think merciful thoughts as you blew up that Jeep. I bet it felt real good in your rebel mind. This is karma.”

With that I swung the whip over my shoulder and let loose on Daisy’s legs.

With each lash I aimed further up her body, raising red welts and screams. Then I concentrated on her chest, each lash cutting deeper until blood began to ooze from the wounds.

By now she was panting heavily, struggling to breathe and in shock. I noticed my wife had her hand up her skirt and was vigorously rubbing her pussy. No need to hide it in here.

When I heard my wife orgasm, I put down the whip for a rest. It was quite a workout and I needed to save my strength for the next part of my plan.

While we caught our breath we took our clothes off and I slipped on the condom.

My wife watched as I got on the bed and sat over Daisy, running my hands over her arms, neck and body, feeling all the cuts and bruises she had endured. She just stared at the roof of the tent trying to calm down from the whipping while I caressed her and licked her neck, tasting the saltiness of her tears. She was still so beautiful and her distress turned me on so much that I couldn’t make my hard-on wait any longer.

I moved down between her legs and pulled back the skin around the narrow entrance to her hairless pussy. Inserting a finger elicited a whimper, for she knew what was about to happen. Working it around a bit, I found her pussy tight and actually somewhat wet. That must be an involuntary response to my stroking and licking, I surmised.

Lining up my cock I decided she didn’t deserve gentle handling. Without warning I thrust my whole cock into her and she gasped and wailed in agony, straining against the manacles. I worked in and out, gripping her thighs, as my wife began rubbing her pussy again.

Once I’d worked up some speed, my wife picked up the whip and began lashing Daisy’s chest, knowing instinctively that my climax was near. I noticed that she spent more time on Daisy’s left tit, causing it to bleed around the needle that was still embedded in it.

When the inevitable happened and the whip got caught on the needle, the two ripped her nipple clean off and I had one of the best climaxes of my life.

Before we had a chance to cool down, my son burst into the tent.

“Dad, two soldiers just came over and walked off with Jane. They wouldn’t tell me why.”

“What!” we shouted.

Daisy let out a high-pitched laugh, began to cough, and then recovered enough to sing out in glee, “Kar-ma!”

Ignoring her, my wife and I hurriedly donned our clothes and rushed out of the tent.

We looked around frantically but couldn’t see Jane anywhere.

“Quick, there’s an information booth over there,” I said, pointing and starting to run.

We got to the tent just as the attendant was coming out, having finished up for the evening.

“Excuse me,” I puffed at the attendant, “My son said some soldiers came and took my daughter. Do you know where they went?”

I was stunned by his delicate answer: “Sir, we received information that your daughter is a rebel sympathiser. She’s been arrested.”

“Eliza,” muttered my son under his breath.

It took us around half an hour to run to the local military police station, and breathlessly I enquired at the front desk about my daughter.

“Yes, I booked her in about an hour ago, sir,” said the desk sergeant. “There’s no need to worry, she is perfectly fine. She was interviewed and then sent to her own cell to have dinner.”

“So can we go and see her?” my wife asked.

“No, I’m afraid not,” he replied sympathetically, looking down at his papers. “Justice is swift these days. You can see her when she goes before the magistrate tomorrow at eleven o’clock.”

There was nothing to do but trudge home and come back in the morning.

The court was attached to the police station, and by a quarter to eleven we were seated in the public gallery overlooking the courtroom, which was currently on recess.

At eleven o’clock sharp a functionary called out ‘all rise’ and the judge made his way to the bench at the front of the courtroom as we stood with respect.

The functionary called out again: “Call Jane Everett and Eliza Fairchild.”

A dread filled me as my daughter walked out into the courtroom wearing royal blue tracksuit bottoms with a matching crew neck T-shirt emblazoned with a white vinyl prisoner number on its chest and sleeves.

Her hands were cuffed in front of her, but she held her head high and didn’t look scared as she was shown to the stand, which gave me some relief.

Eliza made her way to the witness box looking rather nervous. She had been cleaned up and made up, so you would never have guessed that she’d been punctured by so many darts just yesterday. You could see swelling around her left eye though and I wondered if she was now blind in that eye.

My attention went back to the judge.

“This is a preliminary hearing to determine if there is a case to answer,” he informed the court. “The defendant is accused of being a rebel sympathiser. How do you plead at this stage?” he continued, turning to address my daughter.

I was floored at her reply:

“Guilty… ish.”

“Uh huh,” replied the judge, turning to the prosecutor. “Details please.”

“We have a witness,” said the prosecutor, gesturing at Eliza, “who yesterday named three of her co-conspirators, who are all unknown to the police, and also alleged that Miss Everett frequently expressed support for rebel actions.”

“Miss Fairchild, please can you confirm this?” said the judge.

“Certainly,” said Eliza, “On five occasions at school I have overheard her defend our actions to her friends. In fact I considered bringing her into my confidence to see if she would join us in our fight.”

“How do you respond to this accusation, Miss Everett?”

“Eliza is telling the truth, sir,” my daughter replied in a clear, even voice. “I did defend the ELA’s actions in the early days, when they were peacefully protesting. I was disappointed with our government’s approach to discipline in school.”

“But when they started blowing things up and killing people, I couldn’t support that. I just don’t like seeing people hurt, even those who have done wrong.”

“It didn’t worry you last night,” Eliza muttered.

“I have recently wavered, it’s true,” continued my daughter, turning to Eliza. “But that’s because you’re a bully, not because you are a rebel.”

“Eh, what happened last night?” asked the judge.

Eliza shifted uncomfortably. “She threw deadly darts at me.”

“Ah, I see,” said the judge, sighing and looking carefully at his notes. “I see you have been condemned by a higher court for murder. All this is an ill-thought-out attempt to reduce your sentence and throw in some petty revenge. Am I right?”

Eliza had bowed her head and didn’t reply.

The judge looked at my daughter. “Compassion is no crime, Miss Everett, but you do need to learn that what our government does in regard to punishment, though sometimes severe, is necessary for a stable society to function. Therefore I sentence you to one hour of public humiliation.”

Glancing once again at his notes, he continued, “Justice will be swift, as usual, which is to your benefit as you will be able to return home immediately to your parents. You will take an open spot at the local funfair tonight.”

At this he tidied his notes and got up to leave. Everyone got to their feet and I looked over at my wife, who was wiping away a few tears.

I put my arm around her shoulder. “She was very brave, love. Honesty is the best policy, always. I’m proud of her. And one hour of public humiliation shouldn’t be too onerous.” I hoped I wasn’t being too optimistic.

As we watched everyone leave the courtroom, I noticed the judge stop my daughter at the door and have a short discussion.

We arrived in good time at the entrance to the funfair for its opening at six o’clock, and as soon as we entered I made a beeline for the low platforms where people were manacled for ‘free use’. I didn’t think a sentence of public humiliation would go that far, but if it did, I would have to protect my daughter, whatever the cost.

Thankfully she was not on any of the platforms, and I sat down at one of the picnic tables awaiting the return of my wife and son. When they appeared they made their reports.

“She’s not at Deadly Darts or the Wheel of Pain,” said my wife.

“Nor in the little tent beside the Dodgems, or the circus tent,” added my son.

I hadn’t expected her to be at any of those places, but it was as well to check. That left the Ghost Train, and we quickly went over to the join the queue.

We boarded a train with three other riders and anxiously awaited the first scene. It was possible that hanging by one’s wrists could count as public humiliation, as long as there was no physical punishment involved.

The layout of the medieval dungeon had changed, and it was a great relief to find the father and daughter from yesterday still being punished. The mother was nowhere to be seen.

The father was tied to a rack mounted at forty-five degrees so we could see him clearly grimacing with pain as his limbs were stretched by the action of the monk who was turning the rack’s hand wheel.

The daughter was straddling a triangular wooden horse topped by a sharp metal ridge, her wrists tied together to a rope attached to the wooden bar on the ceiling.

Weights tied around her ankles forced her delicate pussy onto the metal ridge. She was already working up a sweat as she raised herself by her wrists to alleviate the pain between her thighs. Her relief was short-lived though, and as she ran out of stamina she tried to lower herself gently back onto the horse to minimise the impact. A bit like the dance of the crucified, I thought.

The second and third scenes were the same as yesterday’s, only with different rebels suffering their punishments.

I took more interest in the third scene. Daisy’s time had come — she had been nailed to the crucifix just before the funfair opened and, having recovered somewhat overnight from yesterday’s ordeal, was vigorously dancing and groaning.

My wife and I looked at each other and grinned as we admired our handiwork. Then Daisy caught sight of us.

“You cunts!” she exclaimed as she studied the train. “Ha! Where’s your little bitch then? I hope the soldiers fucked her good and hard last night and strung her up!”

I had one foot over the side of the train before my wife and son pulled me back.

“Hey, sit back down!” hissed the man behind me, tapping my shoulder. “We’re trying to enjoy the ride here.”

Flustered, I tried to remain calm as the train left the scene to the sound of Daisy’s laughter and coughing.

The people behind us must have thought something was wrong with us when we didn’t collect any rocks from the basket prior to the next scene, and watched in silence as they had fun stoning the latest rebel, a man in his forties.

We were all mentally preparing for what we knew was coming. Only one scene left. What do we say to her? Maybe we shouldn’t be here. Maybe our presence will cause her even more embarrassment. Maybe we should we lay low and hope she doesn’t see us.

It was too late. The roar of the French revolutionary crowd came to my ears and there she was, dressed in a lovely frilly light blue dress, her head in the pillory beneath the guillotine blade, tight leather straps around her body.

“Jane!” called my wife.

“Hang in there, you’ll be fine,” I shouted.

My daughter looked up at us and smiled, though I could see she had been crying. Being restrained like that for some time, unable to move would have caused her muscles to cramp up.

“We’ll take you for a slap-up meal when you get out,” added my son, smiling widely and holding up his thumbs.

“Damn it, will you guys shut up,” said the man behind me, irked.

My daughter just continued smiling and then looked down to the basket in front of her, dutifully playing her part in the way she’d been instructed.

As we walked down the exit steps I heard the woman behind me say, “That effect at the end was amazing!”

“It would have been, but some people like to spoil the moment,” her companion replied in a huff, and I could sense his eyes boring into my back!

We sat at one of the picnic tables restlessly until five minutes to seven and then walked around to the rear of the Ghost Train expectantly.

At ten past seven a door opened and two soldiers came out with my daughter following them, and I was pleased to see that she was not wearing handcuffs.

She ran over to us and gave us long hugs, and there were kisses all round. (Well, alright — not from my son!)

“You’re free to go,” one of the soldiers told her as he handed her a bag containing her clothes. I realised that she was still wearing the fancy French aristocratic dress from the guillotine scene, and I looked at her quizzically.

“Mum, Dad, we can’t leave yet. There’s something I need to do,” she said excitedly, turning and walking away. “Don’t worry, nothing’s wrong. Go and wait for me in the circus tent. Trust me.”

She followed the soldiers, and we followed her until she went into the backstage area behind the circus tent and we were told we couldn’t enter. Before she disappeared she waved us towards the main entrance to the tent.

We found some seats near the ring and watched the mimes finish their act. Then the ringmaster appeared and made an announcement:

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, it’s time for our next thrilling act. Please give a warm welcome into the ring… Eliza Fairchild!”

The crowd applauded as Eliza walked gingerly into the ring, now dressed in a sparkling yellow and red leotard.

“Eliza and her friends were responsible for the death of our dear mayor Cllr Trevor McNulty earlier this month,” the ringmaster continued, to boos and hisses from the crowd. “Eliza, will you walk with me to the centre of the ring please?”

“But… I’m supposed to climb up there, aren’t I?” Eliza replied in confusion, pointing up at the high wire platform.

“There’s been a change of plan,” said the ringmaster quietly to Eliza as he moved behind her, putting his hands upon her shoulders and ushering her over to the centre of the ring.

Slowly the lights in the tent began to dim, leaving just a spotlight focused on the centre of the ring. It was then that I noticed two metal poles slowly rising out of the sand about four feet apart.

“Don’t fight; it won’t go well for you if you do,” the ringmaster whispered to Eliza as he produced a cuff from his pocket and snapped it onto her left wrist, quickly pulling up her arm and clipping the cuff onto a small ring at the top of the right-hand pole.

“But they said I had a chance to go free,” Eliza hissed at the ringmaster as he cuffed her right wrist.

“I hear you gave that chance away earlier this morning,” whispered back the ringmaster as he placed more cuffs around her ankles. The crowd were murmuring and getting excited for the entertainment to come.

Eliza was now facing the crowd, fully restrained between the metal poles, though she could still move her limbs around a little. She had looked scared when she entered the ring; now she looked terrified as she contemplated the ringmaster’s words.

The ringmaster stepped to one side and addressed the crowd once more:

“Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, Eliza Fairchild is ready to meet her fate. Won’t you please give a big hand for tonight’s guest executioner — Jane Everett!”

I was speechless as my daughter stepped out of the shadows behind Eliza and waved to the crowd in her fancy blue dress. She looked amazing.

Some jaunty, raunchy music began playing as my daughter produced a pair of scissors from behind her back, holding them out to show the crowd and grinning.

Eliza couldn’t see what was going on behind her, but the crowd applauded and it unsettled her.

Moving around to face Eliza, my daughter looked her in the eyes for a moment as she began slowly cutting through the right-hand side of her leotard, her hips moving in time to the music.

Then she did the same on Eliza’s left-hand side and looked at the crowd innocently before allowing the cut fabric to fall down around Eliza’s waist, revealing her breasts.

The crowd roared as they took in the scene. Eliza was now topless and they could see what looked like tiny brown spots all over her body — the make-up crew hadn’t bothered to cover up the dart hole scabs in places hidden by clothing.

My daughter then left the ring, momentarily allowing the crowd an unimpeded view of Eliza’s predicament. When she returned it was with a metal costume rack in tow. Except there were no costumes on this rack; just a row of skewers each two feet long hanging from their black plastic handles, and a low stool, which my daughter took and placed behind Eliza.

The music faded into a low, cyclic ominous drone in anticipation of what was to come next, and the noise from the crowd faded with it.

Selecting a skewer from the rack, my daughter moved behind Eliza and carefully began inserting it into her lower back. Eliza screamed and tried to move forward as far as the cuffs would allow, arching her back as the pain intensified.

The skewer emerged from Eliza’s stomach and my daughter came around to admire her work.

Then it was rinse and repeat — my daughter took the time to savour Eliza’s cries for mercy as she forced four more skewers through the girl’s lower back.

My daughter used her next skewer to tease Eliza’s left tit, but then instead of piecing it she held the skewer at an angle to the nipple and studied it from the side, her tongue out slightly in mock concentration.

Then she went back behind Eliza and stabbed the skewer into her back again, this time at an angle so that with some difficulty it emerged precisely out of the centre of her nipple. The crowd went wild.

The next skewer took care of Eliza’s right tit, and we all wondered what would be next — there were only three more skewers remaining on the rack.

My daughter picked up two skewers this time, and turning to face the crowd she held them up like crossed swords as she posed, smiling devilishly. Several cameras flashed as people recorded the moment.

Coming out of her pose she turned to Eliza and got up close to her agonised face.

“It is time,” she said simply, as the cyclic rhythm of the droning music intensified.

With that she stood aside and forced a skewer up through Eliza’s right side diagonally until it emerged from under her left armpit. Eliza’s eyes opened wide as she began to wheeze. No more screaming now.

My daughter quickly went around and skewered Eliza’s left side in the same way, causing her to begin coughing up blood. Her chest heaved as she desperately tried to breathe.

It was time to use the final skewer from the rack. My daughter got up on the stool and carefully wound Eliza’s hair around her hand. Roughly pulling back her head she looked down on her as she plunged the skewer down through the base of her neck into her heart.

The crowd rose to their feet as one and the noise of the applause and whistles was ear-splitting.

Now looking out into the crowd, just above Eliza’s head, my daughter took a little bow and gave another devilish smile.

The spotlight went out, plunging the tent into darkness.

“Wow! Just… wow!” I exclaimed as my daughter appeared from the backstage area at the rear of the circus tent, now dressed in her regular clothes.

“I can’t believe I just did that!” she replied, running over to us, elated.

“I didn’t know you had it in you,” My wife said.

“Neither did I. But when the judge offered me the opportunity I had to take it. I only had around four hours to figure out the routine and rehearse it.”

“Well, no bully’s going anywhere near you when this gets around school,” said my son in admiration.

How quickly people can change, I reflected. Or had my daughter’s goody, goody two shoes persona merely been her way of masking her innate sadism? Well, if so, the mask was well and truly off.

We began walking lazily back to the entrance of the funfair, coming down from our high, and as we passed the information booth the attendant spotted us and came out.

“I’m glad I caught you before you left Mr and Mrs Everett. The government would like to offer your daughter a regular spot in the circus tent. The ringmaster has never seen a more positive response from an audience!”

“We’d be fine with that,” replied my wife. “Would you like that darling?”

“Yes please! I think I’ve found my calling!” replied my daughter.

“Now… about that slap-up meal…” she added, turning to me expectantly as I frowned at my son.

Bedt thing posted this monhh for sure!!!

Thanks, I'm glad you enjoyed it! I'd love to hear other people's thoughts. I'm currently working on a sequel - watch this space!

It had now been over a month since my first, very eventful, trip to our local funfair.

My daughter was making quite a name for herself in her new regular role as executioner in the circus tent, with audiences building week-on-week appreciating her inventive execution routines.

During the week she’d come up with ideas and send them over to the ringmaster for discussion, and then I’d drop her off at midday each Saturday for rehearsals. My wife, son and I would then come back in the evening to watch the show, and take advantage of my daughter’s staff discount on the attractions.

This morning at breakfast my daughter made an announcement:

“I’ve got surprise for you! As it’s your wedding anniversary tomorrow, I’m going to take you on a ‘behind the scenes’ tour of the funfair. Meet me at the entrance at three o’clock and I’ll let you in.”

“Ah, that’s sweet of you honey,” said my wife, “We’d love that.”

Later that day my wife and I walked across the common, and I could see my daughter in the distance waiting for us at the funfair entrance.

“Come in!” she said excitedly as she opened the side gate for us. “Our first stop is the circus tent.”

It felt weird walking amongst the silent attractions, devoid as they were of their usual lights, music and boisterous crowds. The only people who were here were the barkers getting their attractions ready for the evening, mechanics checking the rides, and cleaners picking litter.

As we walked past the Wheel of Pain we waved at the attraction’s barker. He was standing on the platform in front of the wheel, busy replacing last evening’s tatty, blood-stained prize decals on the segments with fresh new ones.

When we arrived at the circus tent we went around to the backstage area and found ourselves in a sectioned-off part of the tent with make-up tables, mirrors and costume racks down one side.

My daughter turned to talk to us:

“I can’t show you everything in here, as I don’t want to spoil your enjoyment of my routine tonight,” she explained, “But I thought you’d like to see our convicts arrive, and see how we prepare them.”

As she spoke she gestured to an opened-up side of the tent into which a large military prison van was slowly reversing. When it stopped, three soldiers got out and opened the rear doors.

Inside, around twenty people wearing royal blue prison uniforms were sitting on metal benches, their hands cuffed above their heads to a rail along the sides of the van. Most of them were sullen, their heads down, but a few were banging their feet and shouting.

“Good afternoon Jane!” said one of the soldiers, ignoring the sounds behind him.

“Hi Kevin! I hope you’re well,” said my daughter. “Did you get my message?”

“Yes indeed — happy wedding anniversary guys!” Kevin replied, raising his hand to acknowledge us.

He consulted his clipboard. “Can we have 846 and 269 first please? Jane would like to take them to the Ghost Train as soon as possible.”

The other two soldiers, clearly of lower rank than Kevin, climbed up into the van and released the handcuffs of a young man in his early twenties with gelled black hair and 846 written on his T-shirt. They warned him not to attempt escape and held his arms tightly as they walked him out of the van.

“This is our undressing, dressing and make-up area for the convicts,” Kevin told us. “Of course, most of them will just be undressing!”

“Remove your clothes,” said Kevin to the man.

We watched in silence as the man obediently took off his shirt and handed it to Kevin, revealing his smooth, toned chest. Then he pulled down his tracksuit bottoms and his partially erect cock sprang out — he wasn’t wearing pants.

“They don’t get issued with underwear,” said my daughter. “If they’re taking part in the circus or are going to be an exhibit in ‘Punishments Through the Ages’, they’ll be given appropriate clothing to wear, and possibly make-up to cover any cuts and bruises.”

“Stand over there,” ordered Kevin, and the other soldiers moved to fix shackles to the man’s ankles before returning to the van.

Convict 269 wasn’t as cooperative as the man. As soon as her handcuffs were removed she kicked at one of the soldiers and tried to escape. They were used to this however, and one of them quickly had her in a headlock as the other took hold of her legs.

With her arms flailing, she was unceremoniously carried from the van and dumped on the ground in front of us.

As she rubbed her neck, the man called to her gently, “Please don’t fight them my love; let’s just get this over with.”

“You coward,” she replied forcefully. “How can you stand there and let them do that to me?”

“You should heed your boyfriend’s advice, you know,” said Kevin. “You are only sentenced to 1st degree public torture; you’ll be home later tonight — if you behave. Others will suffer far worse. Now, stand up and remove your clothes, please, or the soldiers will remove them for you.”

The woman glared at us, and then, having sized up the soldiers, reluctantly stood and lifted off her shirt.

Like the man, she was also in her early twenties, with shoulder-length bleached blonde hair, chiselled facial features, sunken eyes, long neck and slim figure, with medium-sized breasts. When she took off her bottoms we admired her long legs and freshly shaved pussy, which had a small tattoo of an owl above it.

“Ah, that’ll have to go; Fred won’t like it,” said Kevin.

As the soldiers fixed shackles to the woman’s ankles, a make-up lady came over and applied concealer to the woman’s tattoo. Once that was done, Kevin instructed the soldiers to take both convicts to the Ghost Train.

I looked over and smiled at my wife as we followed them out of the tent. Both of us were looking forward to seeing what manner of punishment was in store for this young couple.

My daughter opened the door at the rear of the Ghost Train and waited for the soldiers to go in with the convicts. We followed and shut the door behind us.

I had expected it to be dark inside the Ghost Train, but the work lights were on, so we could easily see as we walked along the narrow corridors behind the scenes until we came to the dungeon scene.

As we entered we saw a middle-aged man with a ragged beard and moustache straining as he moved a heavy wooden table into position so that it was parallel to the train track.

“Nice to meet you at last!” said the man, wiping his hands on his trousers and extending his right hand to shake mine. “I’ve seen you many times riding the train.”

“This is Fred Knowles,” said my daughter. “You’ll recognise him as the monk in this scene, but he’s actually responsible for setting up all the scenes and keeping an eye on the convicts.”

“Tonight’s display will be quite relaxed,” Fred explained to everyone. “Well, for me at least,” he qualified, looking over at the convicts. “My arm gets to have a break from whipping people.”

“Please go and bend over that table, and place your hands above you by the side of your head,” Fred instructed the young man.

We watched the man do as he was told, his neck and wrists ending up resting almost naturally over half-circle indentations at the end of the table. Fred took a wooden block with matching indentations and placed it over the man’s neck and wrists, forcing him up a few inches so that the halves mated correctly and he could secure clips at each end of the block.

With the man’s neck and wrists locked in the stocks, Fred turned his attention to his feet.

“Can you remove his shackles please?” he asked the soldiers. “They aren’t period-correct.”

One of the soldiers removed the shackles and Fred replaced them with leg irons fixed to the table, making sure that the man’s legs were well spread apart.

“Would you like to do the next part?” Fred asked my wife as he dragged another smaller, but still heavy, table in from outside the dungeon scene.

“I’d love to,” replied my wife. “What do I do?”

“We’re demonstrating sexual tortures tonight, but as these two are only sentenced to 1st degree public torture I need to establish some limits so that they are not permanently damaged.”

“I’d like you to turn this wheel until I determine that he can take no further penetration,” Fred continued, his hand resting on a large wheel fixed at one end of a horizontal wooden screwed rod which was inserted through a threaded hole in a wooden trunnion mounted on top of the small table.

My wife went over and examined the mechanism. The other end of the screwed rod was coupled to a smooth mahogany rod with a rounded end, about a foot long and an inch and a half in diameter.

It was obvious how the mechanism worked, and with Fred’s help my wife moved the small table closer to the man’s arse, adjusting its position so that the tip of the mahogany rod touched the man’s arsehole. At its touch the man squirmed uncomfortably.

My wife began turning the wheel and the rod moved forwards, pushing the man’s arsehole inwards and causing him to groan.

“It’ll go in easier if you pretend you’re taking a shit,” Fred advised the man.

The man’s sphincter opened up to accept the rod and he gasped at its girth.

My wife continued to slowly turn the wheel, enjoying her view of the rod twisting as it made its way into the man’s body. At around six inches the man let out a guttural moan and Fred motioned for my wife to stop. He took a pencil from his pocket and marked the rod around the man’s arsehole for future reference.

“You can take it out now,” Fred said to my wife, who began turning the wheel in the opposite direction. Kneeling down and smiling at the man he said, “You can rest now for an hour or so until the funfair opens.” The man just hung his head, looking at the floor and breathing heavily.

With my wife back at my side, we turned our attention to the young woman who was still being held by one of the soldiers. She had been weeping silently as she watched the treatment of her boyfriend, but now she gulped as she saw us all staring at her.

“You are going to be over there, facing the train track,” Fred said, pointing out where the woman should stand.

When she didn’t move, the soldier gave her a shove and Fred approached her with a length of rope.

“Hold out her hands,” he instructed, and the second soldier grabbed her forearms and held them together in front of Fred as he carefully wound the rope three times around each of her wrists and tied it tightly in between them. Then he threw the other end of the rope over the wooden bar running across the ceiling and pulled it so that she had to raise her arms over her head, her hands crossed at the wrists. Finally, he tied off the rope to one of several rings set into the floor.

“She will also receive leg irons,” said Fred, and the soldiers took off her shackles.

After he fitted leg irons to her ankles, Fred pulled her legs apart to fix them to the floor rings, leaving her standing lightly stretched and obscenely exposed.

“You can go and get the next convict now if you like,” Fred said to the soldiers.

Now alone, with both convicts fully restrained, Fred turned to me and said, “It’s your turn to have some fun!”

“This,” he said, producing a strange contraption from a shelf beneath the large table, “is called the Pear of Anguish. It is doubtful whether it was ever actually used as a torture instrument, but our riders enjoy seeing it demonstrated, so I let the historical inaccuracy slide.”

I took the device and studied it. It had four curved brass plates which, when placed together, did indeed look like a pear. In the centre was a screwed rod attached to a handle, and as I turned the handle the plates began to open outwards like petals.

“As before, I’d like you to turn the handle until I determine that she can take no further penetration,” Fred said as we walked around to stand in front of the woman.

I looked up at her face as I felt between her legs, grinning as I began inserting my fingers into her pussy to see how tight she was.

“Please don’t do it,” she whimpered.

“If I don’t, he will,” I replied, nodding at Fred.

Once I felt her juices start to flow, I removed my fingers and introduced the device, twisting it gently until only the handle was visible protruding from her pussy.

She looked up at the ceiling and bit her lip as I turned the handle. After five turns I could feel pressure starting to build and she was sweating and grimacing, her eyes screwed up in pain. After the tenth turn I heard a crack and she screamed in agony.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she moaned.

“Ah, I think you’ve found her limit,” said Fred. “Ten turns wasn’t it? I’ll remember that.”

I returned the device to its closed state, but left it in her pussy.

“Right, we’re done in here,” said Fred, motioning us towards the door.

Turning back to the convicts he said, “When I return, the funfair will be open. I will visit each of you in turn every time a train comes past, administering one turn of your screw per train until your limit is reached, after which I will reset when the train has left the scene. Your job is to moan and scream as you see fit; there will be no shouting profanities, defecating or spitting.”

As he left, Fred flicked a switch outside the door and the work lights went out in the dungeon scene, leaving the convicts illuminated only by light from the slit window and silk flame sconces.

“Well, that was somewhat exciting, but Jane has something even better lined up for you!” said Fred, closing the dungeon scene door behind him and indicating that we should follow him.

He led us through the corridors until we came through the gate into the Roman crucifixion scene. The crucifix was lying on the floor, and I could see that it was on a hinge so that it could easily be raised and lowered.

I looked at my daughter excitedly.

“Yes, Dad, I know you are particularly fond of crucifixion,” said my daughter, “so I have arranged for you to nail a convict to our cross!”

As she spoke I could hear a commotion going on in the corridor, and the two soldiers reappeared at the gate dragging a naked young teenage girl by her armpits as she tried to kick them, encumbered by her shackles.

Fred didn’t give her time to adjust to the scene that greeted her. He came up behind her and smartly kicked her arse, knocking her legs forwards. At the same time the soldiers removed their arms from under her armpits and grabbed her upper arms instead. Bending down, they slammed her onto the floor and held her there. I could tell that they’d done this routine several times before.

The girl lay on her back, momentarily stunned when the back of her head hit the floor. Fred came around and took hold of her shackles, and with the soldiers holding her arms, they quickly lifted her up and placed her over the cross.

With a smile, my daughter handed me four square nails and a hammer, and I took the time to savour the scene before me.

Fred was sitting on the girl’s legs, having removed her shackles, and the soldiers knelt above her head, firmly holding down her arms over the patibulum. She had recovered enough to look up at me, and I could see her shock register as she realised what I was holding and what was about to happen to her.

My wife and I knelt down and I took the girl’s right hand in mine, marvelling at the smoothness of her unblemished young skin and feeling the spot on her wrist where I would shortly violate her with my first nail.

I reflected that I held the power of life and death over this girl, and my cock became rock hard as I looked into her eyes and saw the terror of a cornered animal that knows it is about to die staring back at me.

The girl screwed up her eyes in anticipation as I took a nail and placed it over her wrist. I raised the hammer and brought it down cleanly so that the nail made its way between her tendons and into the wood without severing an artery.

After a few seconds the sensation worked its way to her brain and she screamed in anguish, her back arching reflexively as she struggled against those restraining her.

I raised the hammer again and again, forcing the nail further into the wood as the girl wept uncontrollably.

Once the head of the nail was almost touching the girl’s skin, I looked over at my wife and knew I had to give her the opportunity to experience the nailing too. I offered her a nail and watched as she fixed the girl’s left wrist to the patibulum.

Everyone slowly got to their feet and looked down at the girl as she squirmed and cried. No one had spoken in the past five minutes; it was as if we were taking part in a solemn, sacred ritual.

My daughter broke the silence.

“This is where we leave you,” she said, as Fred and the soldiers left through the gate.

I looked at her questioningly, unsure what to do or say.

“It will be up to you to finish crucifying her in your own way. You have until the funfair opens at six o’clock.”

She came over to us, and with a sly grin whispered, “You know, it is said that the Romans weren’t allowed to crucify a virgin. And I just happen to know that the prison doctor examined her earlier; she’s clear of disease and unbroken.”

“Happy wedding anniversary!” my daughter trilled as she closed the gate behind her.

“Isn’t our daughter amazing?” said my wife, walking over to the girl and kneeling down to stroke her cheek. “What a present!”

“Yes, indeed! This is my dream coming true,” I replied, coming over to my wife. “I need to get naked!”

We both quickly removed our clothes and placed them on the floor beside the gate, before returning to the girl and kneeling down next to her.

“You are so beautiful,” I said to her. “What is your name?”

“Lena Kovács,” she replied sadly.

“Well, Lena, what did you do to deserve the ultimate punishment?” I asked curiously.

“Nothing! I’m innocent, I swear. But my parents were rebels and we were all caught together during a mass shooting. I had nothing to do with it, but I guess the judge had to make an example of us all.”

“Hmm,” I replied, “But you knew that your parents were rebels. You could have turned them in at any time, so you’re not totally blameless.”

Lena said nothing to that, so I continued. “Well, we can’t save you from your fate; in fact, it’s now our duty to carry out your punishment. But we can provide you with some temporary relief if you are willing to cooperate with us. Will you do that?”

“Okay…” she replied with suspicion.

“No kicking then,” I said. “Less movement equals less pain from your wrists.”

I moved to kneel over her, then wiped the tears from her bright blue eyes to study her face. She had a wide forehead, prominent jaw line and a rounded nose with bulbous tip. Her long platinum blonde hair was woven into a braided crown, encircling her head like a regal halo with intricate plaits.

My hands moved down over her slender neck and caressed her breasts, which were sizeable for her age, before moving down between her legs. While I massaged her pussy with one hand and stroked my cock with the other, my wife bent down to lick her neck and kiss her lips.

Lena was soon moaning in appreciation.

“Swap?” said my wife, coming up for air. I moved aside as she knelt between Lena’s legs and began running her tongue over her pussy.

As I began sucking on Lena’s nipples I felt my wife’s hand take over from mine, vigorously stroking my cock. I immediately reciprocated, my fingers delving in between her legs, feeling her wetness soak my hand.

We all came at roughly the same time. I could see that Lena wanted desperately to force her pussy closer to my wife’s mouth, but her nailed wrists caused her so much pain that her lustful ‘ahhhs’ were interspersed with painful ‘arrrghs’.

As we came down from our high, Lena said, “That was incredible — was that… sex?”

She really is innocent, I thought!

“In a way girl, but I’m sure my husband will give you an even more intense sexual experience shortly,” replied my wife, looking at me expectantly.

After a short break I got back on top of Lena, rubbing my cock against her stomach until it got hard again.

“This will probably hurt at first,” I said as I began thrusting my stiff cock into her virgin pussy.

After a few strokes back and forth I could feel an obstruction, and I looked over at my wife and smiled.

“Do it!” she said evilly as she vigorously rubbed her own pussy.

I pulled back, and then plunged my cock deep into Lena’s pussy, tearing through her hymen and causing her to scream almost as much as she did when I nailed her.

Animal instinct took over, and as her moaning increased in volume, so did the speed of my assault. After a few minutes she was calling for ‘more!’ and I was happy to oblige, slowing down slightly to put off my climax.

When I saw she was about to orgasm, I sped up once more and felt my cum pumping uncontrollably into her, mixing with her pussy juice and blood.

As I collapsed on top of her and felt her breasts heaving against my chest, my wife squatted down over her face and ground her pussy into her mouth. Lena stuck her tongue into my wife’s pussy and brought her to orgasm, pussy juice running into her nose and down her chin.

My wife moved over to lie down next to us, and we caressed each other’s bodies and genitals for several minutes in silence, savouring the feel of each other’s skin. While Lena couldn’t embrace us, she made sure to wrap her legs around us.

Eventually I stood up and looked at my watch. It was a quarter past five! Only three quarters of an hour to go until the funfair opened.

“Lena, I hope that was as good for you as it was for us,” I said. “But I’m afraid that will be your first and last sexual encounter. For you, pain must come after pleasure.”

I motioned for my wife to join me as I moved above Lena’s head and bent down to grasp one end of the patibulum.

During our sex session Lena had almost forgotten her predicament. It all came back to her now and she was suddenly desperate.

“Wait, please wait. Surely there’s some way you can get me out of this. Wouldn’t you rather take me home? I’ll be your sex slave for life, do whatever you want, I promise.”

It was a tempting offer, and I relaxed my grip, beginning to muse on how we could arrange it, but my wife’s sharp reply snapped me out of my train of thought.

“No Lena, as my husband always says, justice must be seen to be done. Besides, it would be an insult to my daughter.”

With that, she began lifting the patibulum and I followed suit.

As the patibulum rose, the rotational force on Lena’s wrists caused her to wail and she scrambled to stand, which lessened the pain. The relief was brief though, as we soon had the cross at forty-five degrees and Lena’s feet left the floor.

We moved our hands from the patibulum to the stipes and continued to raise the cross. At around sixty degrees Lena slid down the stipes, and with a jolt was left hanging by her nailed wrists, her agonised screams interrupted by frantic gasps for air.

Once the cross was upright, I bent down to insert a long pin at its base to stop it from falling back down. My wife had already picked up the hammer and two remaining nails.

“I’d like to nail her feet to the sides of the stipes, I think,” said my wife. “Doing it that way means that riders will have an unimpeded view of her pussy.”

I concurred, and took a firm hold of Lena’s right leg, holding it slightly bent at the knee against the side of the stipes. This was some relief for Lena, since she could put her weight on my arm and breathe a bit more freely — she was so preoccupied with breathing that she didn’t think to kick me with her left leg.

My wife placed a nail against the side of Lena’s foot and gave it a firm smack with the hammer, sending it straight through skin and bone into the stipes. Lena howled in agony as my wife’s continued blows ensured that her foot would never work loose.

It was left to me to complete Lena’s crucifixion, and I looked up at her in fascination as my hammer forced the last nail though her left foot and I watched the tears streaming down her face.

We stepped back to admire our handiwork, and as we kissed I told my wife, “I love you so much, dear.”

“Likewise!” she replied, cheekily fondling my cock.

I grabbed her pussy and began fingering, and we brought each other to orgasm once more as we watched Lena begin the long dance of the crucified, her blood and my cum leaking from her pussy and running down her leg.

At ten to six we thought we’d best get dressed and leave the Ghost Train before the first trains appeared. Leaving the hammer next to the cross, we looked up at Lena one last time and watched her sob, head bowed.

“Thank you for a wonderful afternoon, Lena,” said my wife, adding tenderly after a short pause, “If you truly believe yourself to be innocent, I hope for your sake that your ordeal ends tonight.”

I knew from my online research that this was unlikely. Lena, being young, healthy and lightweight, would likely suffer for days. But I didn’t tell my wife that.

“Well, all that exercise has left me ravenous!” I said to my wife as we left the Ghost Train and stepped out into the evening sun. “Why don’t we take it easy tonight and have a romantic meal to celebrate our anniversary?”

“Oh, what do you have in mind?” asked my wife expectantly.

“Fish and chips from the snack wagon over there!” I replied, and she punched me lightly in the side.

We collected our order and sat down at one of the picnic tables to eat our dinner and review our daughter’s surprise tour. Then we wandered around people-watching as others had fun on, and with, the attractions.

After another stop at the picnic tables for ice creams, we made our way to the circus tent. My daughter’s notoriety meant that the circus now had a full house every Saturday evening, and we lucky to bag a couple of seats in the middle of the fifth row.

The evening’s penultimate act was about to start and the ringmaster introduced it:

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, it is my pleasure to welcome Sam Crawford to the ring to perform for you her incredibly daring Disappearing Act!”

A naked woman in her thirties walked out gingerly, struggling to carry a heavy metal ball which was chained to a ring around her neck.

“You will know Sam of course from the CCTV videos shown on the news of her stabbing poor Sanjay Patel, MP for Ashford, to death as he left his house. Sam, please step forward.”

The ringmaster lifted the ball with some difficulty and showed it to the crowd. “Note where the ball is padlocked to the chain,” he told them, pointing at the lock positioned near Sam’s navel. “She will have ten minutes to open the lock, and then she can disappear off home!”

“As you can see, she’s not hiding anything in that costume!” he continued, “All she will have is these lock picks.”

He handed Sam two small metal lock picks, and several people in the crowd booed.

“What?” said the ringmaster, in mock irritation, “Not perilous enough for you?”

“Let’s up the ante then!” he exclaimed, sweeping his arm dramatically across his body to point at the centre of the ring. At this cue, a red velvet curtain upstage dropped to the ground to reveal a gigantic cubic glass tank filled with water. “What if I told you that she will drown if she fails?”

“That’s more like it!” shouted someone in front of me.

Sam must have known that this was all part of the ringmaster’s spiel, since she looked up expectantly just as a steel cable with a leather harness attached descended from high up in the tent.

The ringmaster strapped the harness around Sam’s waist and chest, and she sailed into the air and over to the tank, coming to rest with her feet a few inches from the waterline.

“Are you ready Sam?” said the ringmaster. She gulped, and then nodded affirmatively.

The ringmaster produced a stopwatch from his pocket and started it. Countdown music started playing and Sam began being slowly lowered into the water.

Sam quickly dropped the ball into the water with a splash, and fumbled with the chain so she could see the padlock’s keyway and work on it with the lock picks.

There was silence from the crowd as we watched her carefully working and feeling for the clicks of the pins in the lock. She had obviously had some prior training and practise.

By now she had been lowered into the water up to her knees.

“Look!” said a woman to my right, and I followed her gaze. The water around Sam’s feet was slowly turning red, but she was still focused on picking the lock.

A minute later Sam couldn’t ignore the stinging sensation in her legs, and she looked down into the water. She was shocked and confused by what she saw, but composed herself and redoubled her efforts with the lock picks.

After five minutes the crowd was murmuring as they could no longer see Sam’s legs at all for all the red water, and Sam could no longer concentrate on the lock for all the pain she was in.

She looked down and screamed, dropping the lock picks into the water. She tried to pull herself up out of the tank by the cable, but found that she lacked the energy to lift the ball. Instead she lifted a leg out and everyone gasped as they saw what remained of her foot — just a stub of bone.

Sam panicked and attempted to thrash her legs, but most of her blood had emptied out into the tank as the acid dissolved her body. That’s when she passed out.

The ringmaster clicked his stopwatch. “She had three minutes to spare folks,” he said glumly, pausing for effect before adding brightly, “But I didn’t lie to you — she will indeed disappear as promised! Now, let’s get on with the show!”

I watched Sam’s shoulders disappear into the acid as the ringmaster left the ring to applause and the lights slowly faded to black.

This was the moment I’d been waiting for — my daughter’s latest execution routine.

We were sat in the darkness for around ten seconds, and I began to wonder if anything was wrong, when suddenly a head appeared outside the ring, illuminated by a tight follow spot beam. It sported a pink nose and white whiskers, and belonged to a naked boy in his mid-teens who began to crawl out into the centre of the ring, his brown mouse tail swaying from side to side.

As he got closer and the follow spot beam expanded, I could see that he had cuffs on his hands and feet, attached by thin chain to a steel cable that disappeared into a hole in the centre of the ring. He was forced to crawl by himself, or be dragged along by the cable; he would end up in the centre of the ring either way.

Out of the shadows my daughter appeared, creeping along on all fours, head down, looking intently in front of her. After a few wiggles of her bottom, she pounced on the boy.

Initially he tried to resist, but was surprised when she wagged her finger at him, caressed his head tenderly, and then beckoned him to stand.

Two familiar metal poles slowly arose out of the sand, and my daughter began clipping the boy’s cuffs to the rings on them.

While she was doing this I studied her costume — a sexy black skin-tight one-piece cat suit, open at the neck, with furry gloves, tail and ears. Her face was fully made-up to look like a cat’s.

The mouse was now at the cat’s mercy; and cats are known for playing with their prey. My daughter began caressing the boy’s head again, and then kissed him on the lips, before licking his neck and moving further down his body.

Her hands fondled his nipples and skirted around his back before she continued her downward exploration.

By now the boy had a rock hard erection, and my daughter feigned surprise when she saw it, to the delight to the crowd.

She pawed the boy’s cock like a cat would play with a toy, watching it bounce hungrily. Finally, she took it into her mouth and sucked it until the boy’s expression turned to one of ecstasy, and I could see his cock spasm as it filled my daughter’s mouth with his cum.

The crowd went wild.

Needless to say, the routine so far had turned me on immensely, and my hand was fumbling around in my pocket. I glanced at my wife and was relieved to see her hand under her skirt too.

My daughter had crossed another threshold this evening.

The boy was grinning ear-to-ear as my daughter got to her feet and went around behind him. She held her hands out, fingers spread, and then with a smirk, gave them a sharp shake.

Long claw-shaped blades appeared at the ends of her fingers, and the noise of the crowd intensified in anticipation. The boy suddenly tensed, unsure of what had caused their reaction, since he couldn’t see what was going on behind him.

I never got to see the next part of the routine.

A stocky man and a butch woman stormed the ring, and, to my horror, ran behind my daughter holding baseball bats aloft. Together they mercilessly beat my daughter’s back and legs, and she fell to the ground like a stone.

Before I could fully take in this outrage, I heard screams from behind me and people began rising from their seats. I turned to look, and could see two more people methodically moving down the aisles swinging machetes at whoever was nearest.

I looked at my wife and shouted over the screams, “We need to get to Jane!”

But people were now clambering over seats in their desperation to escape, and they knocked us down to the ground as they did so.

Managing to peek over the seat in front of me, I could see the rebels in the ring had turned their attention to the boy, and were busy removing his cuffs from the rings on the poles. My heart leapt as I saw my daughter slowly crawling out of the ring to the left.

The male rebel took the boy up in his arms and ran out of the ring to the right. The female rebel followed, but stopped at the edge of the ring and fumbled for something in her pocket. She eventually got it out, pulled something from it, and threw it into the glass tank.

It took me a couple of seconds to process what was happening, but then I turned to my wife and jumped on top of her, covering her head with my hands and shouting, “Stay down love!”

The grenade exploded, sending a million shards of glass and drops of acid into the crowd. A flood of acid washed down the aisles. The blast bent one of the tent poles, causing the canvas roof to rip, and light streamed in from outside.

In the pandemonium that followed we somehow managed to get to our feet and into the ring. Looking behind me, I saw bloodied people slumped over seats, others wailing as they held their hands to their eyes, and piles of crushed bodies at the exits being further trampled as the rebels continued to hack away indiscriminately.

We made our way backstage and came upon our daughter lying in a pool of blood in the entrance doorway, trapped underneath the body of the female rebel, whose throat appeared to be slit. In the distance I could see the male rebel running across the common carrying the boy.

“She’s a tough cookie,” said the doctor when he emerged from the radiology room. “Her left leg is fractured in two places, and she has extensive bruising, but she’s otherwise unharmed.”

“That’s a relief!” said my wife. “Can we see her now?”

“Yes, we’ve moved her to Bramble Ward. She has had a leg brace installed and has been given painkillers, so don’t be surprised to find her groggy.”

We made our way to the ward and saw our daughter in one of the beds.

“Hi sis! How are you feeling?” said my son as we approached.

“Crap… or high… maybe both!” my daughter replied, smiling weakly.

“The doctors have put you on painkillers, darling,” I explained. “You have a broken leg and it will probably be a few months before it heals.”

“I’m so sorry that your special day ended like this,” said my daughter. “It was going so well. But at least I killed one of my attackers.”

“It’s not your fault that we got attacked by rebels, dear,” I said. “And, from what I hear, you were the only person to stand up to them. You should be proud.”

“Though, I should let you know that you didn’t actually kill her,” added my wife.

“What? How’d she… I slit her throat with my claws!” sputtered my daughter with indignation.

“The paramedics got to her and saved her life before they attended to you.” I explained. “How did she come to be near you anyway? You both took different routes out of the ring.”

“Well, when they started beating me, I decided to play dead and fall to the floor. It worked, and I was able to crawl out of the ring. I picked up one of our Tasers from the props table to defend myself, and crawled to the backstage entrance to escape. When that woman appeared and came at me with her bat, I shot her. She fell on top of me shaking from the electric shock — it was easy then to slash her throat.”

Impressive, I thought!

“What was that loud explosion?” my daughter asked.

“That woman lobbed a grenade into the tank of acid. Many people have been killed, blinded or scarred for life,” I replied.

“Oh no!” said my daughter quietly, “That’s my fault.”

“Never say that!” chastised my wife. “How can it be your fault?”

“It was my idea to use acid,” replied my daughter, lowering her head. “The ringmaster wanted to use piranha in the act, but I persuaded him not to as it would have been cruel to the fish. I told him that in order to get the effect he wanted, he would have had to starve the fish for days in advance.”

We were silent for a moment, and it was my son who tried to lighten the mood.

“Hey, sis,” he said cheekily, “I hear your routine was pretty tasty today!”

My daughter smiled and I added, “Yes, your mum and I got rather frisky watching it! Where did you learn that?”

“I’m getting older Dad! And where I work it’s hard not to learn such things!”

“Besides,” she added slyly, “why should you be the only ones who get to play? Lena seemed to enjoy it…”

I stared at her — was she saying what I thought she was saying?

“Yes, Dad, I watched you three for a while. We do have CCTV installed on all the rides, you know! You’ll have a great sex tape waiting for you when you get home!”

A week had passed since the massacre, and my daughter was now recuperating at home and learning to use crutches.

I discovered from the news that my daughter’s attackers were Jonathan and Reece Fairchild, so they were probably seeking to avenge their daughter Eliza. They had been on the run before, and Jonathan was on the run again, this time with the boy that they had rescued, Martin Spencer, in tow.

I also learned that while the attack on the circus tent was going on, more rebels had used the distraction to free other convicts from the funfair, including Lena Kovács.

According to the news report, Agnes Morton and Ian Hunkins had garrotted a soldier guarding a tent and rescued three convicts. Then they sneaked into another attraction and rescued three more, knocking out an employee during their escape.

Only Agnes, Ian and Lena had so far been captured; a veterinarian who they had approached to help them tend to Lena’s wounds had turned them in.

The funfair was of course closed, out of respect for the dead and wounded, so I was quite surprised to receive a phone call from the ringmaster asking after my daughter, and wondering if she was well enough to return to the funfair the following Saturday. I told him I would ask her and call him back.

I dropped my daughter off at the funfair on Saturday at midday, her usual start time. She used the side gate as usual, walking carefully on her crutches, and made her way between the stands, games and rides.

The place was mostly deserted, so before leaving I watched my daughter head towards a temporary works office in the distance where there were some construction workers in their yellow vests milling about.

When I picked her up at five o’clock later that day, she was rather chipper.

“You’ll want to watch the news tonight, Dad!” was all she would say as we walked home.

It was a nearly quarter to six by the time we got home, so we grabbed some snacks and sat down to watch the BBC Weekend News. The newsreader led with a breaking news update on the massacre story:

---

The Ministry of Justice has confirmed that three rebels responsible for the Lenhurst Common Funfair massacre have been captured by military police.

Jonathan Fairchild, Randy Smith and Tony Ayles were apprehended earlier today following a major intelligence-led operation. They are believed to be the last remaining perpetrators of the attack two weeks ago, which left 46 people dead and 205 injured.

Our home affairs correspondent reports from outside the Ministry of Justice in London:

Two weeks after the devastating attack that shattered the peace at Lenhurst Common, the military police operation has drawn to a definitive close.

In a series of coordinated raids, authorities not only detained the three attackers, but also recaptured six rebels who had been rescued from custody. They have been confirmed as Martin Spencer, Wendy Wise, Eustace Greaves and sisters Ada, Beatrice, and Celia Johnson.

They now join in custody Reece Fairchild, who was injured during the massacre and later detained in hospital, and Agnes Morton, Ian Hunkins, and Lena Kovács, who were arrested just forty-eight hours after the massacre.

The Ministry of Justice has issued a statement to reassure the public.

In it they say that all captured individuals are currently being held in high-security solitary confinement and that justice will be swift.

Construction has begun on an arena at the site of the Lenhurst Common Funfair. The rebels are scheduled to face a justice tournament at the newly built arena in exactly two weeks’ time.

The government has announced that members of the public will be permitted to attend the proceedings. Tickets for the tournament went on sale this evening via the official Ministry of Justice website.

---

We all turned to look at my daughter, who was very excited.

“I’ve been brainstorming some ideas today with the team responsible for building the arena,” she said, “though they said I won’t be able to take part in the tournament due to my injuries.”

Ten minutes later, I’d booked us four front-row tickets from the Ministry of Justice website.

Two weeks later my family and I were once again walking across the common to the funfair.

Even from a distance I could see that the fair had been transformed. Rides like the Waltzer and Ferris Wheel were still visible, but rising behind them instead of the circus tent was the back of a crescent of high stands covered in red awnings.

We began walking towards the central archway cut into the back of the stands. On the way I noticed that attractions like the Wheel of Pain had disappeared, and in their place were more food stalls and places to sit and eat.

We showed our tickets to an attendant and made our way through the archway, finding ourselves in a tunnel under the stands. The far end of the tunnel opened up to reveal the arena, an oval of sand with a red awning backdrop and two large semi-circular openings, which were currently closed off with blue curtains.

The stands, which curved halfway around the arena either side of the tunnel, had fifteen rows, and were said to hold around 10,000 spectators.

The audience would have no trouble following the action, as a giant screen above the backdrop stretched from one stand to the other, completing the oval.

We took our seats and I studied the arena some more, though there wasn’t much more to see. Rising from the sand in a crescent near the backdrop were thirteen dark wooden posts with manacles chained to them, and I was excited to see two crucifixes on hinges lying in the sand at either end of the line of posts too.

The stands filled quickly and it was soon seven thirty: Showtime!

A solemn fanfare played and the ringmaster walked into the centre of the arena, sporting a fancy new blue coat and top hat. At the same time, twelve guards wearing matching blue costumes with sparkly silver swirls marched out of the openings in the backdrop and spaced themselves out evenly around the arena.

“Ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, welcome to the Lenhurst Common Memorial Arena!” he said. “We are here tonight to pay tribute to those who fell here by seeing justice done to the rebels who murdered them, and reaffirm that we will not tolerate terrorists who despise our country and way of life. But first, please join me in two minutes silence.”

Everyone stood in respect for the dead, and over the two minutes their names and faces were displayed on the screen.

“Now, let us meet the thirteen rebels who will face justice tonight,” said the ringmaster, leaving the ring.

The left-hand blue curtain opened briefly and a stocky man in his thirties emerged from the opening, stark naked. He had only taken a few steps when he stopped dead, stunned at having been thrust into a gigantic arena with thousands of people watching.

But he didn’t stay still long — the two guards either side of the opening ushered him over to the first wooden post on the left with their whips, and secured his wrists with the manacles so that he had to stand with his hands raised loosely over his head. While this was happening, his name and face was displayed on the screen above, along with a live close-up view of the guards restraining him.

The right-hand curtain then opened and out stepped a young girl wearing only an amber plaited miniskirt. She looked terrified, but didn’t put up any resistance as she was led to the first wooden post on the right and restrained.

This process continued until all the posts were occupied. All the rebels were naked with a few exceptions — notably the boy Martin Spencer, who was once again a mouse, and Lena Kovács, who was a cat.

“Your doing I assume?” I said, turning to my daughter.

“Of course,” she replied. “I hope to see the finale of my routine!”

The ringmaster returned to the arena.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys, girls… and rebels,” he said, “Let me share with you the structure of our tournament. There will be six rounds in which two or three rebels will fight each other to the death. They will have fifteen minutes to do this — if they fail, the audience will choose the victor.”

“After an interval, we will hold semi-finals and then of course a final. Only one rebel will leave this arena alive, with their conviction annulled and their freedom.”

“Now, without further ado, let’s start with the trio. These three condemned rebels were rescued from our Dodgems tent and thought that they would escape their sentence. Please bring forward Ada, Bea and Celia Johnson.”

There was applause as the guards released three girls and brought them over to the ringmaster.

“We have dressed these girls in these lovely miniskirts so that you can tell them apart. Ada is wearing amber, her older sister Bea is wearing blue, and her oldest sister Celia is wearing cerise. Easy to remember, isn’t it?”

“Girls,” he said, turning to them, “I have some good news for you — at least two of you will get to see the entirety of this tournament!”

Hearing this, the youngest girls looked at each other with relief. Only Celia stood stone-faced, knowing there was a ‘but’ coming.

“But…” continued the ringmaster, “it will be because you will be watching from those crosses over there.”

The audience murmured as he gave each girl a hammer and a small bag of nails with a rubber band attached, before retiring to a seat at the edge of the arena.

“Your fifteen minutes start now!” shouted the ringmaster, and a countdown timer appeared on the screen along with close-ups of the girls’ startled faces.

Celia placed the rubber band around her wrist to secure the bag of nails, and the other girls followed suit.

They stood looking at each other for a moment, but then I saw Celia give a furtive glance at Ada before looking intensely at Bea. The intent was clear. Bea and Celia suddenly grabbed Ada’s arms and began to drag the little girl towards one of the crosses as she protested.

At the cross, Bea straddled Ada’s chest while Celia took a nail from her bag and forced Ada’s left arm onto the patibulum.

“What are you doing? You’re hurting me!” sobbed Ada.

“I’m sorry sis, but I’m not dying for you,” Celia said, before trying to rationalise her selfishness. “Besides, mum and dad have spent more time and money on me than on you, so it’s logical that I should survive.”

She quickly hammered a nail through Ada’s left wrist, before moving around to do the same to her right wrist. Ada had never felt such intense pain in her young life, and promptly fainted.

“Nail her feet,” ordered Celia, and Bea reluctantly used her hammer to secure Ada’s feet to the stipes.

Both girls arose to stand over Ada.

“Now raise her up,” ordered Celia.

“Can’t you do it?” replied Bea, hesitantly.

“Together, then,” said Celia, and they put their hands on either side of the patibulum.

They raised the cross to around forty-five degrees, their arms above their heads, but as Celia moved to grasp the stripes, Bea unexpectedly let go of the patibulum. Celia staggered under the sudden extra weight and Bea made her move, hitting Celia over the head with her hammer.

Celia fell to the ground and lay there, knocked out with the cross on top of her. The noise from the audience swelled as Bea raised her hammer for a second blow.

“You can’t kill her like that!” boomed the voice of the ringmaster, and Bea’s arm stopped mid-air.

Perturbed, Bea grabbed Celia’s arm, and with great effort dragged her out from under Ada’s cross and over to the empty cross.

As Celia began to come around, Bea knelt on her throat and quickly nailed her left wrist to the patibulum. Celia let out a stifled squeal, and when Bea repositioned herself to nail her right wrist, she grabbed her arm.

“Please sweet Bea, don’t do this to me,” she pleaded.

“The logic you used to justify killing Ada would work just as well for me too, wouldn’t it sis?” said Bea angrily as she wrested Celia’s hand off of her arm.

Celia said nothing.

“You’ve always resented us,” Bea said, and with one strong blow she nailed Celia’s right wrist to the patibulum.

As Celia continued to squeal, Bea nailed her feet and then began raising her cross. She struggled with the weight, but eventually managed to secure the base of the cross with a pin and walk back over to Ada.

“I’m sorry I have to do this to you sis,” she said, wiping the tears from Ada’s eyes before raising her cross.

As the pin secured the cross, a victory fanfare sounded and the timer on the screen stopped with two minutes remaining.

“Please give a round of applause for the winner of Round One: Bea Johnson!” exclaimed the ringmaster.

The audience clapped as Bea was led back to her post and the guards reattached her manacles. A guard pulled down her miniskirt and took it away, leaving her naked, and then went to each of the crucified girls in turn and cut off their miniskirts too with his knife, eliciting wolf-whistles from the audience.

“Our second round pits husband and wife against each other,” said the ringmaster. “Jonathan and Reece Fairchild were responsible for attacking our star executioner, Jane Everett, and rescuing the convict Martin Spencer. They were also wanted for aiding in terrorist atrocities carried out by their rebel daughter and her friends.”

As he spoke, Jonathan and Reece were brought over to him and I saw my daughter smile as the screen focused on the long scar across Reece’s throat.

The ringmaster handed them both rapiers, retired to his seat, and shouted, “Your fifteen minutes start now!”

But this round turned out to be underwhelming.

The couple kissed and hugged each other, to the annoyance of the audience, and then Jonathan got down on his knees and looked up into Reece’s eyes.

“I can’t do it,” said Reece, tears welling up.

“We made an agreement, my love, and I will honour it,” he implored.

Reece took her rapier and held it vertically over the base of his throat. Then, after a deep breath, she placed all her weight on the rapier and plunged it deeply into his body. When she smoothly removed the rapier, blood oozed from the wound and his body slumped forwards, dead.

Two guards crossed the arena and dragged Jonathan’s body back to his post. Reece looked on sadly as it hung limp from the manacles.

“If only they had had such compassion for other people,” remarked the ringmaster, before adding unenthusiastically, “Please give a round of applause for Reece Fairchild, winner of Round Two.” There was only a smattering of applause as Reece was returned to her post.

I looked at my daughter — she looked quite infuriated at missing out on a bloody battle between her assailants.

“In round three,” said the ringmaster, “two condemned rebels who were rescued from our Ghost Train and circus will meet and complete the routine that Jane Everett was performing when she was so rudely attacked. Please bring forward Lena Kovács as the cat, and Martin Spencer as the mouse.”

When they were brought over to him, he looked between them and said, “Of course, the cat does not have the element of surprise this time, and may find that the mouse is not so easily lured by the pleasures of the flesh!”

The ringmaster returned to his seat and shouted, “Your fifteen minutes start now!”

Martin was certainly not going to be fooled again, and immediately started running around the arena. Lena seemed determined to catch him, but he was much faster, and in better health.

After three laps of the arena, Martin glanced behind him and could see that Lena was flagging. He saw an opportunity, and began to slow slightly. As Lena caught up, he suddenly spun around and swung his fist at her. Caught off guard, she ran right into him and doubled-up as his fist slammed into her stomach. There was a collective ‘ooh!’ from the audience.

Martin wasted no time. He kicked Lena to the ground and kept on kicking her relentlessly, despite her pleas for mercy, until she stopped moving.

After watching her for five seconds, he tested to see if she was alive, gently kicking her onto her back. Lena remained motionless, and Martin looked around the arena, a bit confused about what he should do next.

Eventually a paramedic entered the arena and began walking over to Lena to confirm her death. Watching her approach, Martin relaxed and breathed a sigh of relief. He had won the round!

That’s when Lena struck, springing up from the ground with all the energy she could muster, releasing the claw-shaped blades at the ends of her fingers, and launching herself at Martin from behind.

As she landed on him, her arms wrapped around his chest and she sunk her claws in between his ribs. Martin hit the ground face-first with Lena on top of him, and she withdrew her hands forcefully, leaving long gashes in his chest bleeding out onto the sand. As he screamed like a girl, she quickly got to a kneeling position and grabbed him by the throat, mashing her fingers and causing Martin to cough up blood with his screams as she shredded his skin and severed his jugular.

“That’s what we want to see!” shouted the ringmaster, elated. “Please give it up for the winner of Round Three: Lena Kovács!”

The audience roared their approval, and I looked over at my wife. We were both immensely pleased that Lena had prevailed.

“Man, that was gory!” exclaimed my son.

“More gory than even I had planned!” added my daughter, approvingly.

Two guards dragged Martin’s body back to his post, but before displaying it they removed his mouse whiskers and tail and used a wet cloth to remove his make-up.

Then they told Lena to strip off her cat suit, and held her still while they roughly removed her make-up before returning her to her post.

“This one should be gory too,” I said, pointing at the ringmaster who had just walked out holding two machetes for the next round.

“It’s round four,” said the ringmaster, “and it is only fitting that perhaps the most evil of these rebels will be forced to taste their own medicine. Please bring forward Randy Smith and Tony Ayles, responsible for the deaths of forty five people in our circus tent.”

As the rebels were brought forward, the audience began to chant ‘Kill them! Kill them! Kill them!’ at an ever increasing volume.

The ringmaster threw the machetes on the sand in front of the young men in disgust, returned to his seat, and shouted, “Your fifteen minutes start now!”

Tony, a lanky man in his early twenties, immediately bent down to pick up the machetes.

“I’m not going to let you kill me, you bastard!” he spat at Randy. “I loved you, and look where it’s got me. It’s your fault I’m in this mess.”

Randy, a petite boy in his late teens, stepped forward and waved his finger at Tony.

“You encouraged me to storm the circus; you’re as guilty as I am,” he reasoned.

“Only because you said it would be just a protest,” replied Tony, “a way to maybe free some prisoners. I didn’t think you’d hack people to pieces with a machete.”

“I had to avenge my brother,” said Randy simply.

I had been studying Randy’s face and knew I had seen it before somewhere. Now it came to me: His younger brother Simon had been adorning the Roman crucifix the first time we rode the Ghost Train all those weeks ago.

“If you loved me, you’d have kept me out of it then,” said Tony. “Instead I had to kill several people in that circus in order to protect you from the mob trying to take you down.”

Randy laughed. “I’ve never loved you, you fool! I only wanted you for the sex.”

At this Tony railed and lunged at Randy with the machetes, but Randy easily sidestepped his attack.

“You need to practise more!” teased Randy as Tony in his rage lunged again and again and they danced around the centre of the arena.

When Tony stopped to catch his breath, Randy rushed him and kicked him in the groin, causing Tony to drop one of the machetes as he bent over, winded, and instinctively grabbed his privates while letting out a guttural groan.

Randy swiftly picked up the machete and slashed Tony’s legs, forcing him to collapse to his knees.

He’s done, I thought, as Randy raised his machete in the air and readied himself to deliver a fatal blow to Tony’s head.

But there was still some fight left in Tony, and as Randy’s machete descended, he rolled away and managed to get to his knees again. Randy toppled forwards, overbalancing and embedding his machete in the sand.

Tony now had the advantage and used all his strength to end the fight. His machete came down on the back of Randy’s neck and embedded itself there. Tony let go of its hilt as Randy’s lifeless body fell to the ground.

There was thunderous applause, but when the guards came to drag Randy’s body back to his post, one of them held up his hand.

“The boy’s not dead,” he declared as he turned Randy over onto his back. “I think he’s just paralysed — the machete severed his spinal cord but didn’t cut his throat.”

The ringmaster came over, and now with a little more sympathy for Tony, handed him a skewer.

Tony needed no instruction. He knelt down and looked into Randy’s darting eyes, and seeing that he appeared conscious and able to comprehend what was going on, he whispered, “You have broken my heart. Now I will break yours.”

He took his time as he stabbed Randy in the heart repeatedly until the boy’s eyes glazed over.

Tony handed the skewer back to the ringmaster and began walking back to his post.

“Please show your appreciation for the winner of Round Four: Tony Ayles,” said the ringmaster slowly as he watched Tony walk away.

“In round five we’ve another couple of lovers.” said the ringmaster, “These ones were rescued from our Ghost Train. Please bring forward Wendy Wise and Eustace Greaves.”

As soon as Eustace got near, he wrested himself free from the clutches of his guard and started berating Wendy.

“You stupid bitch!” he shouted at her. “I knew this would happen. We could have been free now, but no, you had to go along with our rescuers. I told you not to.”

Wendy got in his face. “They were torturing us, or don’t you remember?”

“We only got 1st degree public torture, you idiot,” he replied, incensed, “and we had less than an hour to go. Now we’re going to fucking die in this arena.”

“I’m not, you weak excuse for a man,” said Wendy, fuming at him.

Eustace gave her a slap and the ringmaster finally managed to get a word in.

“Eh, I’ll leave you lovebirds to it then. You’ve got fifteen minutes,” he said, dropping a couple of knives in the sand and turning to go back to his seat.

The knives remained untouched.

Wendy slapped Eustace hard and he staggered back.

Angered, he lunged at her, sending her sprawling onto the sand before pinning her down and pummelling her face.

“Wendy. Fucking. Wise,” he said between punches. “You never did get that the producer was being ironic when he gave you that porn name and tattoo.”

Wendy tried to push Eustace off, but realised that when properly fired up he was stronger that she thought he was. A few punches later, Wendy could no longer see out of her right eye, and blood streamed into her mouth from her broken nose.

Eustace paused to get his breath and stared at Wendy.

“You know,” he said, “I kept trying to persuade myself that we were a perfect match, but now I see that my nagging doubts were correct — all you were good for is fucking.”

Eustace put his hands around Wendy’s throat and began to squeeze. She put her hands to his face in a final attempt to gouge out his eyes, but he dodged, keeping up the pressure on her windpipe until her wheezes ceased.

Eustace got up, flexed his aching fingers, and staggered back to his post.

“The wedding’s off, then, I take it?” joked the ringmaster as he called after Eustace.

Then he addressed the audience: “Please put your hands together for the winner of Round Five: Eustace Greaves.”

“He dodged a bullet there, certainly!” I said to my son as we clapped.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” said the ringmaster. “This is our final round — let’s hope it’s a good one! Please bring forward Agnes Morton and her boyfriend Ian Hunkins. These two were responsible for rescuing three rebels from our Ghost Train and three from our Dodgem’s tent, where they also murdered Private Stuart Langdon who was on guard.”

But the ringmaster jinxed it with his opening remark. As soon as he left the arena, Agnes and Ian carefully put down the flails that he had given them.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” said Agnes. “We will not fight for your sadistic pleasure. We believe that our government is corrupt and evil, and we will always do whatever we can to expose that corruption and defeat that evil for the benefit of everyone in society.”

“We hope that we will inspire you to expect more, and demand more, from our leaders,” added Ian. “If we must die, then we will die with our principles unbroken and our consciences clear.”

“English Liberation Army!” they chanted in unison.

With that they turned to each other and embraced. The audience began whispering as they sank down and Agnes lay on her back.

Ian went down on her and they began to make passionate love in the sand.

I glanced at the ringmaster. He was having a frantic discussion with a man in a suit — probably someone from the government. But they let the couple continue for their full fifteen minutes, after which a klaxon sounded and the ringmaster got to his feet.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” he said, as if nothing untoward had happened, “you now have the pleasure of choosing which of these rebels will fight in the semi-finals.”

“Please raise your hand if you choose Ian Hunkins as the victor.”

Several thousand people raised their hands, including my wife.

“And now, please raise your hand if you choose Agnes Morton as the victor.”

It was quite clear to everyone that Agnes had won when around seventy percent of the people in the arena raised their hands. I wondered if they secretly agreed that their government was corrupt and evil, or, like me, just wanted to see a pretty teenage girl live to continue fighting. I suspected the latter!

Guards came over and separated the lovers. Agnes was taken back to her post, while four guards lifted Ian by his limbs. He didn’t resist.

A fifth guard retrieved one of the flails from the sand and approached Ian. After looking him over for a moment, he moved between his legs and raised the flail above his head.

The blow was brutal, and was followed by nine more until Ian’s genitals were mutilated beyond recognition.

The guard paused to allow the other four to parade Ian around the edge of the arena, making sure everyone got a view of the destruction.

Then he systematically went around and repeatedly beat all of Ian’s limbs until they broke.

Ian, who had long since passed out, was returned to his post and left to die.

“Please put your hands together for the winner of Round Six: That guard!” said the ringmaster, pointing, and there was a round of laughter and applause as the guard took a bow.

“Well, that’s it for the opening rounds folks,” said the ringmaster. “We’ll have a one hour interval before we start the semi-finals. You are welcome to come into the arena to view the rebels up close… no touching, mind!”

“Do you want to go in?” I asked my wife.

“Maybe later, once we’ve had some dinner. There’ll probably be a mad rush at first anyway.”

We made our way back out through the tunnel under the stands and brought our dinner at one of the snack wagons before sitting down at a picnic table.

Just over to our right I noticed there was a bookmaker’s stand and people were already taking bets on which of the remaining rebels would win.

“Who do you think is going to win, kids?” I asked.

“It’s obviously going to be Reece,” said my son. “She’s so beefy; she’ll crush the kids and the men.”

“I’m not so sure — the kids are small and light and could dodge and outrun her,” said my daughter hopefully. She looked a bit worried as she spoke.

“Tony and Eustace look evenly matched,” I said, “now we’ve seen that Eustace has some balls when properly motivated. I think one of them could win.”

“Whoever gets Agnes will have an easy time if she won’t fight,” observed my wife.

“But if you bet on her and she somehow won, you’d make a fortune!” my son commented, pointing at the bookmaker’s odds board.

After we finished eating we walked back through the tunnel and continued straight on through a gate that had been opened up into the arena.

A temporary metal fence had been erected about twenty feet from the posts and crucifixes, and plenty of people were leaning on them observing the rebels.

I gravitated towards the first crucifix. Seeing someone as young as Amber decorating a cross got me rock hard, especially as her tiny pussy slit was on display for all to admire. By sheer luck Bea and Celia had done a good job nailing her, and she wasn’t bleeding very much at all. She grimaced every time she moved and avoided looking at the crowd.

My son was watching Celia dancing on the cross as I joined him.

“I’d like to dance with her, if you know what I mean!” said my son.

“Yes, I know what you mean!” I replied, smirking at him. “Make the most of her then; she probably won’t see out the night.”

“What do you mean, Dad?” enquired my son.

“See the copious amounts of blood on the sand?” I explained. “She’s bleeding from a severed artery in her left wrist.”

As my son put his hand up inside his shorts and discretely pleasured himself, I walked over to my daughter, who was in a staring match with Reece.

My presence distracted her and she turned right around to look at me, so Reece wouldn’t see her worried face.

“What if she wins?” my daughter whispered to me. “She’ll be free, and I know she’ll come for me. I can’t kill her if she’s a civilian.”

“Don’t worry, there’s only a one-in-six chance of her winning — well, okay, one-in-five if Agnes doesn’t fight,” I said, putting my arm around my daughter’s shoulders to comfort her. “We’ll work something out if it happens.”

“Hey, let’s go and say hello to Lena,” I said to cheer her up. “You can congratulate her on her performance!”

We walked over to my wife, who was already talking to Lena.

“Hi Lena! Your routine was very impressive,” my daughter called out.

“Well, it wasn’t a routine, you know, it was survival. But thank you,” Lena called back.

“I hope you win!” said my daughter.

A bell rang twice to signal that the interval was almost over, so we turned and went back to our seats to watch the guards remove the metal fences and bring out two small stages from the openings in the backdrop.

The stages were set up in the centre of the arena about thirty feet from each other. Each one had a large wooden block fixed to it with another of the same size above it, only this one was split along the centre and had two holes in it. I watched as a guard pulled apart the halves of one of the upper blocks and realised that they were on hinges. I could now see two much larger holes in the lower block.

The guards returned to their positions around the arena and the ringmaster stepped out to greet us once more.

“Welcome back ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” said the ringmaster. “It is time for the first semi-final of our tournament. Please bring forward Eustace Greaves and Tony Ayles.”

The men were forced onto the stages facing each other and their feet placed in the holes of the lower blocks. Then the halves of the upper blocks were returned to their original positions and secured with clips, trapping their ankles.

“Our opening rounds tested the rebels’ strength; now we’ll test their skill,” explained the ringmaster.

As the guards brought out large heavy buckets and placed them all around the feet of the rebels, the ringmaster continued. “You will have fifteen minutes to stone your opponent. I hope you played cricket as kids!”

Back at his seat, the ringmaster shouted, “Your fifteen minutes start now!”

“Maybe Eustace will have an advantage?” I opined to my son. “Tony’s lanky frame has more surface area to hit.”

“Yes, but it looks like he is struggling anyway,” replied my son. I looked and saw that Tony was indeed having trouble even bending down to pick stones from the buckets. The slashes in his legs given to him by Randy were bleeding and causing him significant pain.

Even so, the battle was brutal, and the audience roared every time there was a significant hit on the head or groin. The men’s head’s and bodies were soon covered in cuts and bruises, and their blood flowed freely.

Eustace definitely had the edge though, settling into a rhythm where he would pick up four stones, then lob them in quick succession at Tony’s head. He soon learned to compensate for Tony ducking down and covering his head with his arms, and more often than not his stones met their mark.

After ten minutes Tony had had enough. He slumped forward with his arms and head down and just cried, no longer attempting to protect himself.

Eustace paused and looked over at the ringmaster.

“He must die,” the ringmaster called out. “You have five more minutes.”

Eustace stared at him for a moment in disbelief, and then looked down around him. “I’ll need some more stones then,” he said.

The guards brought over more buckets and Eustace saw that they contained larger, heavier stones. He picked out two, and used all his strength and skill to send them into the back of Tony’s skull.

Tony was unresponsive, so the paramedic came into the arena to take his pulse.

“Not quite!” she reported, stepping back to allow Eustace to throw two more stones.

The audience was silent as Eustace was forced to throw six further stones before the paramedic confirmed Tony’s death.

“Please show your appreciation for our first finalist, Eustace Greaves,” said the ringmaster.

The audience clapped respectfully as Eustace was led back to his post.

The guards hurriedly went around picking up stones before bringing out two low tables and putting them on the stages. Then they set out ten six inch throwing knives on each of the tables.

“In our second semi-final,” said the ringmaster, “the rebels will take turns throwing knives at each other. Please bring forward Bea Johnson and Lena Kovács.”

Bea and Lena were led onto the stages, and Lena gingerly stepped around the pool of blood in front of her wooden block, a grim reminder of the fate that might await her in a few minutes time. When the girls’ feet were secured, the ringmaster stood between them and tossed a coin.

“Heads or tails?” he asked Lena. Lena called ‘heads’, but to my dismay, lost the toss.

“Bea to throw first!” said the ringmaster, sidling back to his seat. “Your fifteen minutes start now!”

Bea picked up a knife and turned it over in her hand, testing the weight. Then she stared intently at Lena, who was looking very uncomfortable.

When Bea threw her first knife, Lena instinctively turned away as far as she was able, her hands going up to protect her face. She needn’t have bothered, as the knife went low and wide, skating across the stage before dropping off the side.

While Bea stood and berated herself for throwing away her first mover advantage, Lena turned back in relief, and after composing herself, took up a knife from her table.

“Please let her be the better shot,” said my wife under her breath.

Lena’s first throw was better, but not by much. The knife grazed Bea’s lower left leg and she gritted her teeth at the sting.

“First blood,” I said to my wife, watching it ooze from the cut. “But now they both have an idea of how the knives handle. It could get nasty from here.”

Bea’s second knife lodged itself in Lena’s upper left leg and there was a collective ‘ooh!’ from the audience. Bea smiled as Lena fought the urge to pull the knife out.

Good girl, I thought.

Lena’s next knife embedded itself in Bea’s side just above her waist and she gasped as she turned back to face Lena. She quickly threw another knife, but the pain distracted her enough that her aim was off and the knife slammed into the block of wood below Lena’s feet.

Lena sensed Bea’s weakness and took full advantage. She drew back her next knife over her head, and pretended to throw it. Bea turned back to face Lena, thinking that the knife had missed her, and that’s when Lena’s knife slammed into her stomach, just below her ribcage.

The audience cheered and my son shouted, “Yeah! Finish her!”

Bea’s eyes went wide in shock, and she grabbed at the knife’s handle and breathed heavily for a while before picking up her next knife.

Lena must have known that her feint could only work once, as she quickly picked up another knife and held it behind her back, waiting for Bea’s next move.

Bea’s next knife would have hit Lena’s body, but Lena had gained confidence and was watching her like a hawk. She easily dodged to one side, watching the knife fly past, before instantly returning fire with her knife, which struck Bea in the neck.

Lena watched as Bea resisted the impulse to remove the knife. There was fear in her eyes as she realised she was about to die.

“You must do it, Bea!” pleaded Lena. “I can’t throw again to ease your passing, I’m sorry.”

Bea looked at Lena with tears in her eyes as she grasped the knife and pulled. Blood flowed freely from her wound and she fell backwards, coughing up blood and gasping for air as the back of her head hit the stage. Her agony went on for two minutes as she writhed awkwardly, her trapped feet not allowing her to lie fully flat on the stage.

“Please give a round of applause for our second finalist, Lena Kovács!” exclaimed the ringmaster as the audience roared their approval.

“Yes!” I shouted, raising my fist in the air.

“Our third semi-final is just like the last, but with spears!” said the ringmaster. “Please bring forward Reese Fairchild and Agnes Morton.”

As predicted, Agnes walked towards the ringmaster and declared, “I will not fight.”

Reese grinned widely, and the ringmaster replied, “We thought you’d say that, so in the interval we had a present prepared for you.”

“Bring it on!” he instructed the guards.

Out of the right-hand opening in the backdrop four guards appeared pulling a low cart with a metal cage on top. It measured around five feet on all sides; not big enough to stand up or lay down in comfortably.

They rolled it up behind Agnes and the ringmaster opened the cage door and invited her to enter.

“And if I don’t?” said Agnes, still defiant.

“We will make you,” replied the ringmaster. “Or you can fight in the tournament. It’s your choice.”

Agnes hesitated for a heartbeat, but then, not wanting to be seen abandoning her principles, stepped up into the cage, and the ringmaster locked her in.

“I hope you like your new home, Agnes,” said the ringmaster, “because you will never leave it for the rest of your life.”

The audience gasped, but Agnes knelt down and held the bars looking at him calmly. Perhaps she didn’t believe him.

“You will see that your home has some charming features,” the ringmaster continued. “That hole in the floor is where you will do your business, and those rings in each corner will allow us to tie you down if you misbehave. It’s small enough that we can reach in and grab you whenever we like.”

“If you refuse food or water, you will be force fed. If you try to harm yourself, you will be restrained. If you need medical attention, you will receive a doctor’s visit at home.”

“We didn’t have room to add a bath I’m afraid, but don’t worry — your home is mobile, and as we take you on tours of the country you can wash yourself in the rain and admire the beautiful English countryside.”

“There’s no wardrobe either, but I’m sure you don’t mind visitors seeing you in your natural attire.”

Agnes looked alarmed. I think she believed the ringmaster now.

“Take it to the back of the arena,” instructed the ringmaster, and Agnes’ home was wheeled around the edge of the arena and parked behind the posts.

“A life of misery,” I said to my family, looking at my daughter who was open-mouthed. “That’s what she’s been sentenced to. If this doesn’t give would-be rebels pause for thought, nothing will.”

“It’s as I feared — she’s going to win,” said my daughter.

“Yeah, Reece is going to wipe out those two,” my son agreed dejectedly.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” I said, pointing to a giant contraption that was being wheeled out of the left-hand opening in the backdrop by twelve guards.

It looked like a small hexagonal bandstand, about ten feet in diameter, consisting of a wooden stage with steps, and six vertical posts supporting a conical roof. The stage extended out like a catwalk for another ten feet, with two wooden posts at its end supporting a sloping roof.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” said the ringmaster, “it is time for the final of our tournament. We’ve tested the rebels’ strength and their skill — now we will find out who has the better brain! Please bring forward Eustace Greaves, Lena Kovács and Reese Fairchild.”

When the rebels had assembled, the ringmaster walked to the end of the catwalk and showed them a crossbow fixed at chest height between the wooden posts. It was pointed at the hexagonal stage.

“A bolt from this crossbow will kill anyone unlucky enough to be standing on the stage,” he said. “You will see that its trigger mechanism is connected to a steel cable which runs up to the roof and along inside it to the stage.”

He walked along the catwalk to the stage and pointed to the underside of the roof, where a great many metal handles with numbers written on them hung down from steel cables.

“Grabbing and pulling many of these handles will pull the steel cable and release the bolt,” he continued. “But many of them do nothing.”

“You will each be presented with a maths problem and will have five minutes to decide which two of the handles represent the correct answer. Pulling the handles will keep you in the tournament — or seal your fate.”

My attention turned back to the rebels. Reece looked particularly worried; this was not the kind of challenge she was expecting in the final.

“We’ll go in age order,” said the ringmaster, taking off his hat and turning it over to demonstrate that it was empty to Lena and the audience. He snapped his fingers and a load of paper slips miraculously appeared in the hat.

Lena picked one, and unfolded it.

“5 times 9 — well that’s easy,” she said, relieved.

Lena limped up onto the stage and looked up at the handles. There were two with 45 written on them, but they were too high for her to pull. She raised her hands and confidently jumped up, grabbing both handles at the same time. As she expected, nothing happened, and she swung on them a few times and grinned, before releasing them and leaving the stage.

Eustace put his hand in the hat and pulled out a slip.

“Factors of 15, excluding 1 and 15,” he read out loud.

Walking up onto the stage, he muttered to himself, and then looking confident he looked up, searching for the correct handles to pull.

“What’s the answer?” I asked my son.

“No idea, Dad — I’m no good at maths,” replied my son.

“3 and 5,” answered my daughter promptly.

“Correct!” I exclaimed.

Eustace got it correct too, and climbed back down the steps. Now it was Reece’s turn.

“128 divided by 8,” she read. “Shit!”

Reece stood still, thinking out loud, for a full four minutes before the ringmaster coughed, breaking her chain of thought.

She looked at him, and then up at where he was pointing. The timer on the screen above had just counted down past 58 seconds.

Reece rushed up onto the stage, and frantically looked up at the handles. She latched onto two of them, and paused to take a breath.

The audience was silent as she pulled. And nothing happened. She sighed with relief and slowly walked off the stage.

“16, in case you were wondering,” said my daughter to my son, jabbing him in the side.

“Yeah, I got that one, sis!” he replied, punching her lightly.

It was Lena’s turn again.

“20 percent of 525,” she read off of the slip.

Lena walked back onto the stage and began to think out loud.

“So, 20 percent is one fifth. A fifth of 500 is 100, and a fifth of 25 is 5, so the answer is 105.”

After running through it again in her head, she committed and pulled the handles, then turned and walked back off the stage.

Eustace bagged an easy one next, and was done in under a minute.

“Ha!” he scoffed. “323 plus 418 equals 741.”

“Oh no, I hope they’re not getting blasé about this,” said my wife, concerned.

Reece reached into the hat for the second time, sweating.

“6 exclamation mark,” she read, her brow furrowed. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Factorial,” said Eustace helpfully, without thinking.

“Oy! No cheating please!” scolded the ringmaster.

“Oh, that’s a lot of help, thanks!” Reece spat at Eustace sarcastically as the sweat ran down her face.

Reece had no idea what ‘factorial’ meant. But then neither did I, so I could easily relate to her distress.

I looked over at my daughter — she was smiling as she stared at Reece and savoured her discomfort.

In no time at all, the ringmaster gave another loud cough, and Reece rushed up onto the stage. She looked around the arena in a panic, hoping someone would come to her rescue. Several people started shouting out answers and she strained to hear them over the general excitement of the audience, many of whom were anticipating her death.

Suddenly my daughter got to her feet and shouted shrilly, “360, it’s 360!”

Reece must have heard her, and as the timer counted down past ten seconds she desperately searched for the handles, found them, jumped up and pulled them together.

There was a loud click and a zing as the crossbow bolt fired, followed by a low thump as it made its way through Reece’s chest and emerged from her back.

Reece stood in disbelief for five seconds listening to the audience applaud, then her grip on the handles gave way and she slumped to the floor, dead.

“There’s a lesson here kids — always pay attention in maths class!” I quipped.

“Oh yeah, did you Dad?” said my son.

“Well, no, but I should have. Maths can have life-changing consequences it seems.”

“Indeed,” said my daughter with an evil grin. “Somehow I forgot to do the final multiplication by two, and look what happened. What a pity!”

As the guards dragged Reece’s body off the stage and back to her post, the ringmaster loaded a new bolt into the crossbow before offering Lena his hat.

Lena gingerly picked out her next slip.

“The square root of 169,” she read. “Phew!”

She looked shaken, but after some careful thought, made her way onto the stage to pull the handles marked with 13, before returning to the ringmaster.

Eustace picked out a slip.

“Cosine of 90 degrees,” he read out loud.

Eustace thought for three minutes before climbing the steps onto the stage and looking up at the handles.

“Well, there’s no -1,” he muttered.

After hesitating for another minute, he shrugged his shoulders and finally chose to pull the handles marked with 1.

“Damn!” was his last word as the crossbow bolt pieced his heart.

“He got sine and cosine mixed up,” said my daughter matter-of-factly. “He should have chosen 0.”

I took her word for it.

As the audience cheered and the victory fanfare played, I suddenly realised that it was over — Lena had won!

The ringmaster held Lena’s right arm in the air as he declared her the winner.

“Give it up for our champion, Lena Kovács, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls!” said the ringmaster as they both bowed to the applauding audience.

“She leaves here with her freedom, unlike those you see behind us. They will remain here on display in this arena as a reminder to everyone in society that the law must be obeyed. Do not make us hold another tournament. I bid you all good night and wish you a safe journey home.”

As we stood to leave our seats, the guards re-erected the temporary metal fence in front of the posts and crucifixes, so people could continue to view the dead and dying up close.

“We need to go and congratulate Lena!” said my wife.

We got to the gate at the end of the tunnel, and entered the arena to find Lena swamped by reporters and photographers.

Eventually we got close enough to call to her, and she came over to us, pleased but exhausted.

I shook her hand, and my daughter gave her a hug.

“I’m thrilled that you won!” she said.

“Aww, thank you! It was your cat suit that saved me!” replied Lena.

“Nah, it was your smarts!” said my son. “I’d have been a goner if I’d got that question about factors.”

Lena looked us over and thought hard.

“I thought about your offer, and I’d like to accept,” she said to my wife.

“Offer?” I enquired.

“Well, you know how you were entertaining the idea of rescuing Lena and taking her as a sex slave?” my wife replied. “I had a chat with her during the interval, and we came up with something better.”

Turning to my son and daughter she continued, “Kids, both of Lena’s parents are dead, so I thought we could adopt her — what do you think?”

“So I get a sister? Brilliant!” said my daughter.

“She can help me with maths homework!” said my son.

“You don’t mind that we tortured and crucified you?” I asked Lena in disbelief.

“What came before made up for that!” she replied.

“Well, that’s settled then,” I said. “Lena, would you like to come home with us now?”

“I’d love to, but first I’ve got to take care of this,” she replied, pointing at the knife still embedded in her leg.

“Oh yes, right,” my wife replied, “Son, can you call over that paramedic? We need to get Lena to hospital.”

A few weeks later Lena was well on the mend; her bruises had almost disappeared and the stitches that had sewn up the wound in her leg had been removed. Her wrists and ankles were stiff though, and would always carry scars to remind her of her crucifixion.

My daughter was starting to walk again without crutches, and now had the whole arena to use when doing her weekly execution routines at the funfair.

All of us were sitting on the couch watching TV when my wife cuddled up to Lena.

“So, hubby and I were wondering if you’d like to have some fun with us tonight?” she asked Lena, gently.

“I’d like that,” replied Lena, and she smiled coyly as she got up and left the room.

A few moments later my wife and I glanced at each other and got up to leave too.

As we got to the door my daughter coughed and I turned around.

“I’d like to have some fun with Lena too,” she said, grinning.

“So would I!” said my son.

“Come on then kids,” I said, and they followed us to our bedroom.

What a family, I thought. This will be a night to remember!