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We'll Always Hang Paris	By : JayDee Category: G through L > Gilmore Girls Views: 11204 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Gilmore Girls nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-We'll Always Hang Paris
- 1
We'll Always Hang Paris

By JD joandoe@gmail.com

Description: Brutally violated and forced to answer rigged questions on murderous game show Freshman Hangman, Paris Geller becomes another victim of the patriarchy’s misogynistic rape culture.
Content Codes: Abuse, Anal, Bigotry, Bond, ChallengeFic, Complete, Contro, DP, F/F, Humil, M/F, MCD, OC, Oneshot, PWP, Rape, Solo, Tort, Toys, Violence, Voy

Warning: This story contains content that should not be read by people underneath the age of 21. It is 100% fiction and has no bearing on reality whatsoever. Real life rape is WRONG. So is Necrophilia, murder, sexism and the patriarchy. The author does not condone illegal and immoral actions described. Please read the story codes and stop reading if you can’t stomach that shit. Seriously, you’ll just hate it if you keep reading and send me flames or do shitty unfunny MSTs or whatever. But do link me to funny MSTs!
Disclaimer and author’s note: I do not own Gilmore Girls nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. The original version was written by me in 2007/2008 for Psycho's 'Gameshow of Death' thread challenge on Deathstalker’s forum and has now been re-written and expanded. The title paraphrases a line from the film Casablanca (1942). But you already knew that.

“Hello Westerners! Welcome to this year’s Freshman Hangman! Our guest is Paris Geller of Yale. An intelligent woman? Not intelligent enough to stay home where she belonged!”
The studio lights went up to show the garish Freshman Hangman set, with a hemp-rope noose hanging from the ceiling and around the neck of the naked Paris. She was covered with dried flaking sperm that had been dribbled and spurted over her, and it flowed freely from her gaping ass and cunt. Blood stained her thighs from the repeated hard, brutal rapes she had endured. The salty mess on her cheeks was streaked through with tears. Another camera showed the audience a bloody view from behind in split screen. She’d been whipped hard. Paris’ eyes were glazed and confused, as if she couldn’t really come to terms with what had been happening to her since she went to sleep in her room at Yale, and woke up in a windowless cell in what she was assured was in Iran. She didn’t believe the assurances. None of the balaclava wearing men who’d raped her looked middle-eastern. Several of them had been uncircumcised. They hadn’t made any Anti-Semitic comments. One of them had a Red Sox tattoo.
There had been a lot of men in the cell, others waiting outside. The first man had been a deep, fully African, black. She had asked him why he did it, and he’d just spat on her, forced her thighs apart. Paris had tried to fight, flailing with her slim arms at the heavyset rapist. Two men had grabbed her wrists, forced them back to the floor. She hadn’t been able to keep her thighs closed as the thuggish man rubbed at her crotch . Her pussy had been shaved, she realised, as he pressed between her lips almost gently, then bucked inside with a brutal thrust. Paris’ desperate scream had excited him, and though the fresh blood staining his shaft was the only moisture, he raped her with hard, deep thrusts that tore her dry cunt up and ensured beyond doubt that she would spend the next few hours in pain.
“Stop it! Stop it! You evil bastard!” she’d requested, “You’re hurting me!”
He’d just fucked harder, pressing her legs back towards her head so that she was forced to take every inch of him, his big balls slapping into her with a force that ought to hurt him. Paris Geller, a smart, studious, college girl was raped on a filthy concrete floor. She had her first of many experiences of a rapist’s orgasm when he stiffened up, grunting and gurning behind his balaclava, and exploded into her painful pussy. He pulled out slow, making sure it all stayed in there even though she wouldn’t live long enough to become pregnant. Then, with a gestured threat to pop her eyes with his thumbs, he made her lick his shaft clean as the second man spread her legs and plugged her hard.
She knew they wouldn’t stop. The only weapon Paris had was her tongue. A bone fide genius, she identified a few likely facts about the next guy even as his balls slapped into her. She taunted the rapist so hard and accurately he lost his erection. Held down, raped, in pain, Paris laughed in his face. Snarling with rage, he’d tried to beat her face in. The others had stopped him, dragged him off. After that a ring gag was found, Paris’ mouth forced painfully wide. It assault lasted for most of a day. Long hours, so many cocks, took the fight from her. The petite college girl came to know true physical suffering, the kind of pain a rich girl would never normally encounter. She had no interest in anal. She wasn’t a gay man. On that hard floor she eventually took two men in her ass, as two got into her pussy. They laughed and high-fived as she stretched obscenely around the organs they’d made into weapons against femininity.
When they were finished they strung her arms up to a hook in the ceiling, faced away from the door. Paris felt breasts pressing into her back, rings in the nipples, small on a muscular torso. She blinked the stinging come from her eyes and looked down to see the hand reaching around, fingers almost tenderly playing with her cum sodden cunt. The woman stepped away and with a crack, a whip fell across Paris’ skin. A man, speaking from behind, told her in a thick accent that Iranian law insisted whores had to be flogged. Throat raw from ring-gagged cock sucking and screaming, Paris still managed to cry out as the leather opened her back until it was criss-crossed with bleeding marks. Her front was stained white, her back red. They unstrapped the gag, dragged her dazed and pained body from the cell.
After the flogging it was time for the game show. Freshman Hangman. The utterly illegal broadcast that had become an annual terror for girl’s seeking higher education in America, as each year from one to three girls would be kidnapped and killed as voiceovers exhorted their fellow students to return home to their fathers and brothers and be housewives. They always claimed to be in the service of one of America’s enemies, and would “prove” the uselessness of education to their victims, when the abductees inevitably failed to answer rigged questions that rarely had anything to do with either intelligence or knowledge. Attendance was down across the country for female students, but until that year no girl had been taken from an Ivy League school. Paris had thought she was safe; her parents were rich, they had influence. The school had armed guards, who would stare with naked lust at their social and intellectual superiors.
The rope hanging down above the college girl’s head was slack, but the noose was snug around her throat. Police cuffs cut off the circulation in her wrists, and they ached almost as bad as the torn and dripping asshole they were secured above. Her ankles were similarly shackled, with barely an inch of chain between them. Paris was completely prevented from interfering with the noose. Under her feet were five planks, one on top of the other, supported in a frame. The wood felt rough beneath her soles.
The unseen host explained the rules of the ‘game’ through his voiceover microphone. It sounded as if he was masturbating as he spoke,
“…We ask a maximum of ten questions! For every question Paris gets wrong, a plank is removed. If she manages to answer enough questions without having all the planks removed, we’ll send her back to the Great Satan, where even a whore as used as this may find a happy marriage. If she doesn’t, it will prove once again why this supposedly brainy bitch should have stayed away from books and instead married and been bred for many fine sons!”
The statement didn’t make sense. 24 hours before, Paris could have retorted and ripped the nonsense up worse than her genitals had been. She shivered in her noose as a muscular woman walked onto the set. Almost certainly the same woman who had whipped Paris, she was nude but for a black executioner’s hood and gold rings piercing her nipples, clitoral hood, and labia. Her complexion also marked her as westerner rather than one of the supposed Iranians, and her pussy was shaved as bare as Paris’ had been. She carried a spiked metal dildo in one hand, and teased Paris’ still gaping lips with the cold tip. Paris looked down in her confused state and saw the sharp metal spikes that emerged from every side above the woman’s thick fingered grip. It seemed more like a weapon than a sex toy.
The kidnapped college girl’s whole body shook as a fresh spasm of fear wracked her; the cuffs rattled loudly in the studio. She could see the steely-grey eyes of the muscle-woman inside the hood, and couldn’t understand why another woman would treat her so horribly. Paris herself had only ever exercised mental cruelty, and then only at girls she saw as beneath her. Which, admittedly, had been most of them. Could this muscle bitch really hold herself above Paris Geller? Begging her for help wouldn’t work. That was obvious. Just as her muffled pleading during the gang rape had only excited the rapists to use her harder.
The clearly aroused voiceover addressed Paris, audible in the studio,
“Paris! Ms Geller! You’ve been raped in the ass and the cunt countless times today! You’ve had all of those dirty cocks in your mouth. How do you feel?”
Paris started to cry again, sobbing hysterically, her legendarily sharp wit crushed by the hours of horrific sexual abuse.
“Isn’t she a star? Zarena, are you ready to begin the game?”
The masked muscle-woman raised a thumb up with her free hand.
“Outstanding! That’s one bitch who knows her place. We might even let her live! Geller, spell your first name! Clock is ticking!”
A ridiculously easy question, but as the questioner had guessed Paris was crying too much to form her reply coherently. As the question finished, a clock face projected on the wall behind her. 30 seconds counted down to zero, with no answer given by the broken college girl. Zarena gripped the top plank on the pile of five in one beefy hand, and pulled it away. Paris nearly slipped, but managed to regain her footing on the one beneath. Her approaching death suddenly felt real, snapping her from her tears and even chasing away her dazed state to hear the next question. Aware properly again, Paris groaned as the pain throbbed throughout her back, her bruises, but mostly her cock-destroyed cunt,
“Sorry, Paris! No answer! Nine questions or four planks to go! Okay, you genius sperm receptacle, what is the square root of sixty nine to two decimal places?” The clock started.
“Eight point, uh, three five!” shouted Paris, mind racing, damn near correctly, and the clock stopped immediately. She couldn’t believe how husky her voice sounded, or how much it hurt to shout.
“Wrong! I thought you were supposed to be smart, cum catcher.” The voice laughed, “Remove another plank, Zarena!”
The muscle-woman did so one handed, even though Paris tried to press her feet down on it. She could feel the slack being taken up on the rope. Zarena prodded Paris’ cunt with the spiked dildo again. The sadistic muscle-woman wanted the kidnapped freshman to keep the toy in mind, not quite sure of when or if it would be forced into her.
“Okay, wrap your Ivy League mind around this one: How tall is your college roommate, Rory Gilmore?”
Paris knew that one!
“She’s 5’7”! I was there when she was measured a while back.”
“We didn’t ask her height a while back, Paris, we asked how tall she is. Let’s check!”
A giant of a man walked into the set. He had to be 7’2” or 7’3”, and like the earlier rapists he had a balaclava covering his head, but for his eyes and mouth. He also had a harness around his torso, with a hook from the strap across his chest. Rory Gilmore was hung from the hook, thin cord cutting deeply into her throat. Paris could see that her arms, legs and breasts had been brutally hacked off, the wounds cauterised by what looked like tar. There was just as much semen dripping off her as there was from Paris; just how many rapists did they have? Paris had wondered how she’d been taken from their room without Rory being disturbed, as she looked at her friend’s bugged out eyes and purple face she knew she had been.
“Wrong answer, Geller! Rory is clearly far shorter than that!”
Paris couldn’t stop looking. The big man’s cock was buried up Rory’s ass, but her pussy had completely prolapsed and flopped like a gooey sock from her crotch. It looked like they’d sucked it out with a vacuum. Paris saw Rory’s eyes flicker towards her, and loosed a scream at the realisation that her friend was still alive, choking on cord and her own blood, with a rapist in her ass. She must have been shot up with something to keep her conscious and suffering as she died. Tears fell down Rory’s cheeks until, with a final shudder, she started to release her bladder on the studio floor. The giant grabbed her tarry leg stumps, and grunted as he came into the meat hanging off him. Rory died before the final ejaculation. He lifted her remains away, unhooked the cord, and propped her up beneath Paris before leaving the set.
Zarena reclaimed the blonde’s attention by using her free hand to grip Paris’s clit and pinch it hard between fingers with more trained strength in them than her victim’s bicep. Paris screamed, and wriggled, and still the muscle woman squeezed. Probably enough to cause permanent damage, certainly enough that Paris suffered horribly. She stayed standing in her precarious position by luck more than anything else as Zarena yanked cruelly on her most sensitive flesh. It felt like her clit was going to be pulled off, twisted right away. When the fingers released their grip, the nub looked stretched and deformed as the abused slit beneath.
Another plank was removed. There were only two more to go, and Paris finally lost her last, lingering, hope that something would stop them. None of the previous girls had managed to save their necks. They never would. This wasn’t an act of Iranian terror; it was the patriarchy keeping woman down with the aid of gender traitors. The silent Zarena’s pussy was oozing with arousal, coating her muscular thighs, while thick globs of bloody spunk leaked from Paris Geller, keeping her thighs slickly wet while the rest of her spunk skin bath was dry and flaking. In previous years victims had claimed to still be in America, that this was a conspiracy against women. The broadcasts had kept the claims in, and even Paris had assumed the victims had been forced to make the claims by the evil enemies of freedom, to sow doubt in democracy. With her sheltered upbringing, despite her intellect, she had never realised the true evil depths to which men would sink to keep women from equality.
Paris tried a final plea to her parents’ money and influence, more whispered than shouted through her raw throat,
“Mommy! Daddy! Help me, you’ve got to do something! You’ve got friends who could stop this, powerful men! You can pay to save me!” Paris urged, though she didn’t even know if her parents were watching. Maybe the cops would prevent them seeing it. She remembered hearing how one mother had blown her own brains out when she saw her twin daughters on that screen a few years back.
“A heartfelt plea, bookslut, but I have to tell you that there’s no diplomatic pressure at all on our show. Our phone is silent. Maybe Daddy likes our philosophy? How much of his money did you piss away at Yale learning to suck dick? Never mind though, because if you get the next seven questions right though, then you can go home and ask him! Maybe show him what you learned in Cock Handling 101. Next question – when we asked Rory if she would be prepared to be raped to death in exchange for us letting you live, did she say A) “Yes” or B) “No, please let me live, kill Paris!”
The clock began its countdown, but Paris didn’t stop to think. She knew her friend well, and didn’t doubt Rory’s generosity of heart. Paris, of course, would have sold our Rory in a second. There was a newfound steadiness in her voice when she replied.
“She said ‘Yes’, didn’t she? Is that why you killed her?”
The voice laughed again, the merriment matching the sounds of his jerking off hard enough for his mic to pick up the slap of hand on skin. He would have to slow, soon, if he didn’t want to blow his load before the finale. Then he played a recording,
“Rory Gilmore?”
“Oh, god, no more, please, is my stomach is coming out of my... my pussy?,” the voice was truly piteous to hear, broken by rape and torture. Paris looked down at Rory’s body as she listened,
“We have Paris Geller here, too. We can heal you up, even wipe your mind, so you’ll wake up and it’ll be as if nothing happened. All you have to do is tell us to kill Paris instead.”
“I... she’s my friend, I can’t I...I want to live.”
“Do you want to learn what your own ass tastes like first hand? We can cut off your head and stick your tongue in there before you die.”
“Oh, god, oh, god, please, let me live. Kill Paris.”
“Do you want us to rape her first?”
“Anything! Just let me live!”
Paris felt as if she’d been stabbed as they played the recording. Then she got stabbed for real. Zarena pressed the spiked dildo against her cunt, and then shoved hard enough that it went all the way up into her. Though gaping and loose, the sharp metal spikes tore into her already bleeding pussy. Her shackled ankles meant her bruised thighs were held close enough to also tear bloodily. She again nearly lost her footing on the final plank, feet dancing on splintered wood. In that moment the new pain felt worse than the earlier whipping and raping, and fresh blood began immediately flowing down her legs. The dildo was almost up to Paris’ cervix, and lodged solidly in place. Her face turned almost white with shock. Zarena bowed, fingering her shaved pussy for the camera.
The noosed blonde just kept screaming as loud as her throat allowed, and missed hearing the next question entirely. It was about how many pints of sperm Rory had swallowed, so she’d have got it wrong anyway. Zarena pulled away the last plank, and Paris dropped the last inches into the air above Rory’s slack face. Her scream choked off immediately as the expertly tied noose tightened to ensure she suffocated rather than died from pressure to her arteries or spine. Zarena backed away to allow the two cameras to show Paris Geller’s body from different angles on split screen.
It wasn’t a fast humane neck-snapping hanging. Paris Geller would take long minutes to die, like a convict at old Tyburn. She did start going purple in the face almost immediately, and her strangled gagging was picked up on the studio boom mics as she kicked hard, closely cuffed legs twisting together. The spiked dildo in her cunt tore her up internally as her body writhed, finishing the job of shredding her bloody pussy like paper. Zarena stood to the side, rubbing and fingering herself roughly, loving the college girl’s last dance as if she were her Prom Queen.
The pain built in Paris’ chest. Her tits shook as she fought for breath she couldn’t draw in. A very small amount of air made it through, extending her suffering. There was even heavy breathing broadcast over Paris’s struggles as the voiceover guy jerked off, having forgotten to turn down his own microphone. Paris’s eyes were bugging and bloodshot from her pretty face, showing animal desperation to survive even as she intellectually wanted death to end it. The college girl was aware she was naked and choking to death in footage that would be seen around the world. There would be endless replays, looped downloads. The growing heat in her belly might have brought her an asphyxiation-led orgasm if not for the all consuming agony of her ravaged cunt. The throbbing in Paris’ head seemed to expand to fill the whole world, growing ever worse. She was still conscious, still kicking weakly, nearly twenty minutes after the last plank was pulled away.
Finally, an eternity later, recognising only pain and the lingering regret that she didn’t go to Harvard, she died. Zarena came again silently as Paris’ piss arced down onto the bloody flat ruin of Rory’s breasts. The hanged girl hung limply in her noose. Eyes dead, tongue protruding, she was as hanged as she would get. The cameras’ implacable gazes zoomed and focussed to roam her body, and show every abused inch to the watching audience and Paris and Rory’s families if they should watch. Panting softly, the voiceover continued,
“Another life lost to the perils of female education. Fathers! Keep your daughters at home! Don’t forget, death is not the end for Paris and Rory as our team of necrophiles will keep them busy through the night before they go on display at a campus near you!”
The bodies produced by the show would always be thoroughly cleaned, preserved and secretly displayed in the front yard of houses belonging to families with high school senior girls possessing good academic records. Some of them had disappeared before the cops could claim them, only to show up weeks later in even worse states of abuse. As the final shot of Freshman Hangman, the Camera froze on Paris’s distorted bug-eyed purple face, and then the screen faded to black.
End.

Yeah, that was pretty fucked up. My usual request: If you’ve read all the way through please leave a review, a comment, or something. Since I get very few reviews I assume most readers don’t make it this far. I could post anything here. The only thing that will save humanity is a matriarchy. Men will always fuck up.
All reviews will be replied to here:
http://www2.adult-fanfiction.org/forum/topic/17603-jaydees-tv-review-reply-story-discussion-and-additional-notes-thread/
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We'll Always Hang Paris