Yolanda sat in her living room, absorbed in a Radiology textbook. A quiet knock on her door brought her back to the physical world. She opened the door and found a postman with a 9x12 envelope.

“Are you Yolanda Darnell?”

“Yes.”

“I have a registered letter, signature required.”

What? Yolanda accepted the offered pen and signed the form. The postman handed her the envelope and left. Yolanda opened the envelope and found a single sheet of paper and a card to fill out.

The letter:

Shaun Oliver, Dean of Students
Welles University
Riverbend, MN 56163

September 8, 2048

Yolanda Darnell
4527 Woodridge Lane, Apt. 3G
Riverbend, MN 38104

Ms. Darnell:

After examining your midterm paper for Advanced Radiological Diagnosis, ME437, Professor Archer concluded that you had plagiarized major portions of Ms. Misty Howland’s paper from 2 years ago. He referred the matter to the University ethics committee, which concurred.

You have therefore been disenrolled from Welles University, effective immediately.

If you wish to contest this finding, you must notify my office in writing no later than 5PM today. Otherwise, you will report to the nearest Execution Center no later than 4:30PM tomorrow. A partly filled-out registration card has been provided for your convenience.

Shaun Oliver

Executive Dean

Well, that’s it, I guess. Prof caught my copying and I’m done. I need&hellip not a drink&hellipa&hellip She opened the bottom drawer of her desk and got out a “Pound Plus” bar of Belgian Chocolate from Trader Joe’s. She ate half of it, then put the other half back in the desk.

Then she picked up the card:

Yolanda wrote in “beheading” as the method. Get it over with fast. She dithered a bit over “sex of executioner” and finally wrote “either”.

She brought up a browser, Googled for a limousine service, and managed to reserve one for 2PM. Then she looked for a topnotch restaurant that was open in the early afternoon and found a bistro with 4-½ stars. Might as well have a really good last meal.

Yolanda started putting Post-Its on various possessions, indicating who should get what. She was nearly done when the limo driver knocked on the door. She gave him the address of the restaurant. A few minutes later she tipped him and told him to park the limo and listen to music or whatever to pass the time while she ate her last meal.

The driver pulled to the curb in front of the Execution Center. He opened the door and bowed as Yolanda got out and gave him all the money left in her wallet.

Yolanda summoned up her courage. I can do this. She walked up the steps. The door opened as she approached. She presented the form to the young man (not much older than me) at the reception desk. He glanced at it, made a few entries on his computer, then looked at her again. “Please remove all your clothes and put them in the bin to your left, then have a seat. Your executioner will be with you in a few minutes.”

Yolanda stripped naked and took a chair. It was comfortably padded and the area was warm enough to be comfortable. She sat, looking around nervously, her right leg bouncing on the ball of her foot, as she nervously waited for her executioner to collect her. Am I nervous? Well, yes. My life is about to end. The blade will come down, a second of pain, and no more Yolanda. I don’t even know if the room will be clean, or a bloody mess. Or whether my executioner will be male or female. Will I have sex one last time?

And with that thought she realized she was getting excited. Wet down below. Facing execution, and I’m turned on? I thought fear would inhibit that. She went over to the table and picked up a magazine -- anything to distract me...

But the magazines were all... Executioner’s Journal. Best Executions of 2047, The Murphy Brown Gallows Monthly.

Yolanda picked up that last and pretended to read it while she looked over the top at the stud across the aisle. Nice chest, and a six-pack. Can’t be much over 30. Wonder how he came to be here. Then again, I’m only 25. He caught her looking at him and smiled, but just then the heavy door at the far end of the waiting room opened. An older man, dressed all in black, came out: about 5’10” tall, 170 pounds, and his clothes fit him quite nicely.

He looked around, spotted Yolanda sitting in a chair, and came over to her.

“Are you Yolanda Darnell?”

Yolanda stood up. “Yes. I ... um ... I guess you’re my executioner ... sir?”

“Yes. I’m Damien. Welcome to the Execution Center.”

“Are you ... are you going to use the guillotine, or an axe, or a sword?”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I only do hanging and strangling.”

“But I requested beheading.”

“Did you have an appointment?”

“Umm ... no. I didn’t know I needed one.”

“You need an appointment if you want to choose how you die. Otherwise, you get whichever executioner is available. That man there -- he pointed at the young man -- has an appointment with the electric chair at 4:30.”

Well, I guess I’m going to find out what hanging feels like. Yolanda took a deep breath to steady herself -- her heart was racing like an Olympic sprinter at a track meet. She also noticed something else: My cunt is getting wet. Facing death by hanging -- surely an unpleasant way to go -- and I’m leaking, fluid running down my leg for everybody to see. Well ... everybody meaning this Damien fellow and that hot stud sitting there, looking at ease as he waits for The Chair.

Damien put a hand on Yolanda’s arm. “Come with me. We’ll have you dancing in just a few minutes.”

Yolanda let out a small whimper, partly of fear, partly of excitement, as he took her by an elbow and escorted her to her death.

Damien led Yolanda to a door with the unisex bathroom symbol. “Use this bathroom. I don’t want mess on my gallows.”

When she came out, it seemed as if Damien had not moved even a fraction of an inch. He took her by the arm again and led her to a door. Room 116. He pressed his palm against the number plate. There was a “click” sound. He pushed the door open and led her into a room, about 10 feet on a side, with a chair, a small table, an odd-looking device attached to one wall, and nothing else.

The device consisted of a metal framework, solidly attached to the wall, with an arm sticking out, and a pulley at the end of the arm. A rope emerged from the wall, ran over the pulley, and ended in a noose. There were three buttons at one side: an upward-pointing arrow, a stop sign, and a downward-pointing arrow.

Damien kicked the door closed.

Yolanda’s eyes darted around the room, her gaze gravitating to what was certainly the instrument of her demise. She instinctively backed away, and bumped into Damien, then jumped slightly in surprise. “S-sorry...” she muttered as she stood awkwardly, staring around the room. Afraid, but ... somehow excited.

Damien opened a drawer and got out a tube. “Bend over and lean with your hands against that wall.”