H A N G M A N

"Wanna see our gameroom?" Said the dashing young Fraternity boy to the pretty black Sorority sister, who nodded "Yes." But in the unfinished basement, lit by a bare bulb, there were no games to be seen.

"We're gonna put a pool table over there" the freckle-faced football player explained, "poker table there for poker night. Maybe a foosball table here, or a pinball machine, if we can afford it."

"But there are no games to play now?" the caramel co-ed inquired.

"Just one." he retorted, unfolding a folding chair that had been leaning against a wall, a wall on which was mounted a full length mirror and a white dry-erase board. The chair was the kind of chair that people used to have on their patios back in the 70's, before the molded white plastic ones became ubiquitous. The kind made of two-inch wide strips of thin fabric woven through aluminum tubing. It was designed and built to support the average ass of the average joe-six pack guy from the Carter Administration era. The joints were loose, and the fabric was faded and tattered, as though it had spent 35 summers in the sun, and 35 winters covered in snow, which it had. But even on the day the chair was built, no sane person would have used it to stand on.

And that's why it was quite a shock to the ebony maiden when the dumbass defensive lineman picked her up in a bearhug and stood her on the raggedy chair! Just as quickly, he retrieved a noose from the ceiling joists, and slipped it around her thin chocolate neck, pulling it snug. "We play Hangman" he said, putting his hand on her chin and turning her head to look toward the dry erase board and the mirror, the mirror which reflected to her the predicament she was in. He walked toward the dry erase board, withdrawing his support, and instantly, the heals of both of her shoes broke through the slats of the chair, and she screamed as the noose tightened just a bit, thinking the chair had collapsed. But he didn't even look back to see if she was OK. He just popped the top off of a dry erase marker, and began to mark on the board...

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ .

"You win, you get to have anal sex with me." He explained, matter-of-factly.

"You lose, you lose your chair."

"You guess a letter that isn't there, you lose."

"Vowels can be purchased for one article of clothing."

"Shoes count as one."

"Would you like to buy a vowel."

He knew she would. They always do.

"WHAT??!!" Burst from her oversized lips.

He looked at her strangely, his head cocking to the side, like a very dumb dog. He looked at the board, studying the dashes for a moment. Then back at her. "Really? THAT'S your guess? 'WHAT'? W-H-A-T? Sorry. You lose." Suddenly, he was tugging viciously at the chair, and she was screaming, her hands grasping about his head and shoulders for balance.

"NO! WAIT! I'LL BUY A VOWEL! I'LL BUY A VOWEL!" He relented. One of her shoes had already fallen off in the brief struggle. She slowly but deliberately kicked the other shoe off by wedging it under the arm of the chair. "But how do I know which vowel? I mean, it doesn't seem fair..."

"All five vowels are represented in the puzzle. You can't lose when you buy a vowel." For a jock, he was very clever. Even though he was drunk when he designed the game, he knew it was important to get his playmates to remove their clothing voluntarily. Almost as important as finding a way to get them to verbally consent to the degrading act of sodomy that would soon follow the game... He grinned to himself as she said "A". And then he wrote it on the board:

_ _ A _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ A _ _ .

"E" she whimpered, untying the knot at her toned belly, then unbuttoning and removing the halter top.

_ _ A _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ E _ _ _ __E A _ _ .

The discarding of her top had revealed a no-frills, but heavy-duty white bra. Probably a D-cup. "I", she said, unclasping it and letting it drop.

I _ A _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ E _ _ _ _ E A _ _ .

Unsupported, the heavy black jugs sagged a bit. A shame, he thought, that a girl with such toned abdominal's would neglect doing any upper body workouts. "O" she gasped, almost losing her balance as she reached back to unzip her short, navy blue skirt. She unclipped her phone holster from the waistline, and he reached and took it, clipping it to his own belt, as her skirt fell to her feet.

I _ A _ _ _ O _ _ O _ _ _ _ _ E _ _ _ _ E A _ _ .

Unlike her bra, the panties were a bit frilly. A powder blue triangle, with a lacy pattern woven in, and attached to the corners of the triangle were clear, almost invisible elastic bands, no thicker than a coin. "U", she said, but quickly realized that she couldn't do it. It wasn't because of modesty. She'd already resigned herself to the prospect of stripping for this psychotic buttfucker. It was just that removing her panties would require her to lift each leg, and certainly doubling the weight on one leg would send her plunging through the chair to her death. "You have to help me."

He grinned again, turning to fill in the "U's". He'd seen many chicks in this predicament, of course. They invariably saved their panties for last. "You can owe me." is what he always said. Sometimes his playmates mistook this as a gesture of mercy, but the truth was, he found the sight of panties-especially such 'barely there" panties-to be far more arousing than anything that such a tiny patch of material could conceal.

I _ A _ _ _ O U _ O _ U _ _ _ E U _ _ _ E A _ _ .

She trembled a little, aware that her safety net was gone. And she had no idea what the phrase might be.

"Pick a letter" he demanded.

"What if it's not there?" she asked, her eyes suddenly welling with tears.

"Then you lose." he shrugged. But he knew she wouldn't lose. They never did. After all, Hangman was such a simple game, really.

"Y" she selected. Smart girl. Dumber chicks started out with "S", which was also fine. But this girl would guess "T" next. He was correct. And then the puzzle looked like this:

I _ A _ T Y O U TO _ U _ _ _ E U _ T _ E A _ _ .

This led her to ask for an "H", which filled the 8th word, but not the 6th, which meant there must be an "M".

I _ A _ T Y O U TO _ U _ _ M E U _ THE A _ _ .

...and she was pretty certain she knew it. But since there was no penalty for guessing more letters, yet the penalty for guessing the phrase wrong was death, she just kept adding letters until it was filled out completely.

"W"

"N"

"F"

"C"

"K"

"P"

"S"

...and then she could stall no more. "I'm ready to solve the puzzle."

"OK. Just a moment." He was punching a number into her cell phone. He held it first to his ear, and then to her mouth, and nodded.

"I want you to fuck me up the ass."

He flipped the phone shut, lifted her from the chair, and removed the noose, untying it completely, so it was now just a harmless coil of rope. He refolded the chair, and put it back against the wall by the mirror and the dry erase board. Then he wiped the board clean. He turned back, and saw her reaching for her clothes.

"NOT SO FAST, BITCH. I THINK YOU OWE ME SOMETHING." he growled, pointing to the panties.

As she slowly removed them, he flipped open his own phone, and pressed the "messages" key, then the speakerphone key. They both listened as woman after woman after woman repeated the same refrain in an ongoing chorus of fragile female voices: "I want you to fuck me up the ass." The messages that he always saved-to play for the police who never came. And the last one recorded was the first one of Negro dialect.

Oh, and then he fucked her up the ass.

The end.