The Gallows Girls

This is a writing prompt from the incorrigible Chuck Wendig over at The prompt was to take a title (I picked The Gallows Girls) from a list and write something under 1,000 words. Some life got in the way so I had to hold onto it, until now (aren’t you all fortunate?).

I enjoyed writing this one, so I hope you’ll take a gander and at least crack a smile (you cynic).

The Gallows Girls

Autoerotique Asphyxiation–not just for aged martial arts movie stars. I heard a gaggle of girls at my school talking about The Gallows Girls, a forum that tailored to women who masturbate or have sex while choking themselves. Now, any would-be dreg of the internet would know that choking and sex go together like cottage cheese and ketchup–You know someone who likes it, but by and large it’s not everyone’s cheese and crackers.

The problem with this little forum is that it’s private. While my slight morbid curiosity about the practice brought me to the homepage, I can’t exactly produce any kind of content as a makeshift secret password to entire the wild world of A.A. Not that A.A. the one mentioned at the top of the bill.

Doing my usual rounds of pornhub, I was drawn to the ads for camgirls down the right side panel. These were real people (real in the sense that the stripper you like is actually named Chastity) who, for a small fee will close up normal shop and have a private show just for you. Golly. What swell gals.

After a reasonable PayPal transaction, my lady of the hour was DaddysLiLSub. She looked the part: heavy eyeliner, decently-sized gauges in her ears, septum piercing. Not to stereotype, but people into this sort of thing do have a look about them. Unless, that is, you’re the chick from 50 Shades.

DaddysLiLSub: Wat u want me to do, bby?

KngFuCrdne: Do you have any rope?

DaddysLiLSub: Mmmhm…Is silk ok?

DaddysLiLSub put on a lovely show, and was surprisingly compliant with my “hold the notecard with the username up to the camera” request. But was it convincing enough? Only the Moderators of The Gallows Girls would know for sure. A few knocks on the digital box fort and I was in.

I don’t know what I was expecting–but oh was it so much more. Part of the deal was your profile had to include at least one video or gif of you performing the act. I had mine, and I was ready to scour.

Images seemed to be the currency around these parts. Much like you and your Grandma trading cat memes on Facebook, The G.G. forum had pages upon pages of how to stay safe, techniques, DIY–you name it. There was, however, one piece of this little community that particularly caught my hungry eyes.

Reading through it all, every now and then the word “brinking” came up. The strangeness of this magical term was how quickly moderators deleted posts or straight up banned users who mentioned it. I’d already gone this far, let’s see how far down this rabbit hole goes.

A user by the name of Sprlnkr_Steph had a respectable post count of 2,700 and a personal gallery of over 400 images and videos. Steph was only warned about the tabooed “brinking” utterance, and apologized to other forum goers for even mentioning it.

Banning be damned, I had to know what this was all about. A quick private message later, and I was sent this:


I was hesitant to click it. Phantom links often to lead to dark corners of the internet, or you get Rick Rolled. Gimme the red pill, Morpheus!

A video came up–the usual GG fanfare, a woman choking herself while diddling her bits. Another figure came into view and kicked the chair out from under her. There’s some trust involved in the community, so I wasn’t alarmed…until a minute went by. A minute thirty and I got worried. The woman let out a garbled safeword I couldn’t make out, and the figure rushed to her aid. Phew. She composed herself and held a stopwatch up to the camera. It read 1:33. That’s it?

Another message to Steph: “Is this brinking?” and wasn’t expecting her response.

Sprlnkr_Steph: How far would you go before you die?

Steph, the asphyxiate adrenaline junkie was challenging me to ‘brink’ into ecstasy…or death–whichever came first. This would undoubtedly be a problematic query for the gracious DaddysLiLSub. “Hey, you think you could kill yourself for me?” The least I’d get from that is a black mark from–a punishment I was not ready for.

I could have ended it right then and there. I got what I came for, didn’t I? The itch still needed a good scratch, but how to pull off the rouse? A quick costume change and I could fake it. They would see through the lie, I was sure of it. Professionals always spot the faker. What did I care if some kink enthusiasts thought less of me? The fake me.

KngFuCrdne: I would, but…I don’t have a spotter.

Sprlnkr_Steph: I can arrange one.

I was overwhelmed at this point. Had I gone too far? Yes, I think so. Shut’er down, boys–the dream’s dead!

It would have been, had there not been a knock at my door. A most curious of knocks at 2 in the morning. My Landlord, come to check on the boiler…right? The peephole revealed a hooded figure. Nope town, U.S.A. Nope city. Nope the Country. Another knock.

Sprlnkr_Steph: Aren’t you going to let her in?

 Shit. Shit. Shit. What have I done? Close it down! Burn the harddrive! A few clicks and my front door creaked open. Behind the couch is the safest place…when you’re 6.

Now I’m face-to-face with, wouldn’t you know it, DaddysLiLSub. She was the ‘spotter’ Steph was referring to. Never mind the how or why, but there I was, sat on my bed, rope around my neck, hands on my genitals, staring down the red blinker of a Canon DSLR.

…1 minute, 34 seconds, if you’re curious. Fuck you, Steph.

I Myself

Something a bit different to work out the ol’ thinkin’ muscle. Drop a comment or like if you’d like to see more pieces like this.

I Myself

“I will prepare my utensils, and then we shall begin.”
These were the last words I myself heard before my life ended. I jumped ahead too far, let’s take a step back.

I awoke that morning, the same as I had day in/day out for the last ten years—had a simple breakfast of runny eggs, lightly buttered toast, and weak coffee. From there I showered, primed myself for the day, and walked the three miles to work. I work in a simple office that sells custom-made apparel and nicknacks, tailored to customer’s specifications. From the website you can place a photo, logo, whatever you desire on the product, choose a color, then purchase however many items in as many iterations as you wish.

The orders come through my desk, I myself am responsible for ensuring the customer’s order has gone through processing properly, and I address any last-minute modifications to our department’s designer before the order is finalized and sent to the printers. This was once an automated process, though we found that there were a number of issues that would arise from emailing or sending the files through our systems, so I myself took the responsibility of hand-delivering the orders on flash drives to the printers in the basement.

We are a smaller operation, to be sure, and though the office building my company leases has many floors, ours is confined to the fourteenth and basement floors. In order to get to the basement for the printers, I myself must take the elevator down to the ground level, make a brief stop at ground, then press an additional button to move to the basement floor. This is to prevent any office worker not of my company from mistakenly entering our printing operation, and perhaps disrupting any of the printing staff.

As I entered the elevator, I myself stand as close as I can to the panel of illuminated buttons, as to not prevent any patrons from accessing it, I jingle the keyring holding the flash drive, as I had done any other delivery to the basement. The idle tick is somehow calming as the LED numbers descend from 14 to G.

Floor Nine hangs a moment longer than it would in normal operation before a soft ding signals the lift has been called. Weight shifts in the lift as it adjusts to the stop before the doors slide open and I’m greeted by a young professional woman who works for the stationary office a few floors down. We make small talk, she smiles politely and leans awkwardly to finger the button for the fifth floor.

I know through my tenure that the fifth floor has housed many small operations like our own, though in recent months has remained vacant. I could address the woman, asking if her selection was in err, or I myself could choose to ignore the action as a matter none of my concern. This, as always, is my selection.

The weight of the lift shifts once more as the fifth floor is reached. The woman politely smiles, wishes me a pleasant day, and exits the lift. As I suspected, the fifth floor is vacant. The woman does not appear undeterred. None of my concern. The doors close and my descension resumes. Four…Three…Two…One…Ground. Pause for effect, then I select Basement. The lift lurches as it makes it’s final descent, slowing after a brief pause and the doors open to our printers.

I am greeted by the acrid smell of ink, as always, and see at the far end of the room the latest items come off the assembly line get inspected before being carefully packed and readied for shipping. I myself always call ahead before making my delivery, ensuring my presence has the least amount of disruption on operation, and am usually greeted by one of the printing staff awaiting the next order.

Taking a firm step into the room, a member of the printing staff waves me over to approve the previous order’s specifications. The order is still fresh in my memory, the approval takes only a few minutes. He then hands me a spare and thanks me for my service. I return to the lift and begin my ascension.

Once more the lift lurches to a halt at the fifth floor. The soft ding, followed by the doors open brings the familiar blank wall across the hall, with the unfamiliar sight of a lone woman’s shoe. This is none of my concern, though…

Before the doors close, I step out of the lift. From the right of the hall, I am faced with another blank wall. To the right, a barren corridor. Looking down to the shoe at my feet, I see nothing out of the ordinary—other than the unordinary placement of it.

“Hello.” I say to the corridor, receiving no reply. This is none of my concern, though…the owner of the shoe could very well miss its twin. Shoe in hand, I casually walk down the hallway. As I draw closer to the opposing wall, a faint light of fluorescent origin peeks around the corner. This is none of my concern. My coworkers are no doubt expecting my immediate return.

“Please, come in”. My earlier query of presence is met with these three, simple words. When rounding the corner, I am met by the gentle eyes of the woman from the lift encounter earlier. As if in reply, I hold up the lone shoe. She takes it from my grasp and gestures to the reclined seat beside her. I sit although every synapse screams their protest.

“I will prepare my utensils, and then we shall begin”, and it brings us to now. The chair is comfortable, I myself wonder if—