"(Story) You crazy bitch (Cons, F/F, Beheading) «" By robblu (https://pastebin.com/u/robblu) URL: https://pastebin.com/Xsv7kRNt Created on: Friday 22nd of July 2016 09:27:15 PM CDT Retrieved on: Saturday 31 of October 2020 03:31:21 AM UTC (Story) You crazy bitch (Cons, F/F, Beheading) « on: June 21, 2016, 01:50:05 AM » ReplyQuote I always had an odd relationship with death. Or rather, I had no relationship at all with death, which other people found odd. It just never bothered me. Why should it? Everybody dies of something, sooner or later, so why be afraid of it? I never was. I remember when I was fifteen or so, we were at the top of a cliff on a class trip and one of my friends, Samantha found out about this. “So you're saying you're not afraid to die?” She asked. “No.” “Not even a little bit?” “Not really.” “Do you WANT to die?” I had to think about that one. In the end I said “No. Being alive's pretty cool, but that's about it. We'll all die eventually. I'm not scared of dying.” She had looked thoughtful, and then suggested I jump off the cliff. “Why?” I asked. “Because I think you're afraid to die, just like everybody is. I think you're lying.” “I'm not.” “Go on, then. Prove it.” I just shrugged, and hurled myself over the edge. The cliff in fact wasn't as sheer-sided as it looked. I landed on a ledge about ten feet down and broke my collar bone, but I survived. Samantha stopped talking to me afterwards. So did all of my class. I was the weirdo, the freak. The girl who wasn't afraid to die. My parents freaked out and made me talk to all kinds of psychologists and psychiatrists and all kinds of other people whose job titles began with “psych-” and eventually the consensus was that I was a euthymic, intelligent, empathic and otherwise normal young lady who simply didn't give a fuck if I was alive or not. They did persuade me not to take it so lightly though. People other than me would be upset. I actually felt kind of ashamed when my parents told me how much I hurt them. When they and my brother died four years later in a car crash, I just shrugged it off. After all, it was always going to happen some day. That was the day my cousins stopped talking to me. My State legalized prostitution when I was 21. I quit my job in fast food that evening, sold my car and the house my parents had left me and used the money to buy a place downtown which I turned into a brothel. Me and a few other girls all above board, legal, discreet, non-exploitative and classy. STI checks and condoms mandatory, no drugs allowed, no booze served but the clients were welcome to bring their own. I worked five days a week seeing two or three clients a day, sometimes group sessions, attracted a few regular customers and had plenty of money left over to do what I wanted. That was how I met Samantha again. The first words out of her mouth when she saw me were “Oh my god, it's you?! Well, I'd better fuck you while you're still alive.” She became one of my most valued regular customers. Since school she'd married a wealthy lawyer, birthed three beautiful young children (and learned black magic too judging from the fact that three babies hadn't hurt her figure at all), and acquired a thirst for pussy that her husband just wasn't equipped to satisfy. Apparently he earned so much that he never bothered to care how much money Samantha was spending, nor to wonder what she was spending it on. I could guess why: she was the classic trophy wife, young blonde sexy and an incorrigible whore. Like, I was a literal prostitute, but she out-slutted me every possible way. One time she even sucked off our bouncer, Don, just because she wanted to, and paid me to join in. And every time she came to me, she asked the same question: “Still alive?” I pointed out that I was having fun with my life. All the sex I could want, huge amounts of spending cash, and I really didn't give a fuck for office drama – if the girls started being unreasonable, they were out on their ass as legally as possible. This policy had left me with a solid core of sensible, funny, level-headed and mature working girls who relied on me for their living. All good lays, too – the nature of our work meant we all wound up fucking at some point. “Yeah, but… you don't really care, do you?” she asked. “Not really” I would tell her, or sometimes just a plain “No, I don't.” Until one day I asked her, as she was busy between my legs, “why do you keep asking me that?” “Mm.. I can't stop thinking about how you threw yourself off that cliff when we were younger” she confessed “Why?” “I don't know! It drives me crazy just thinking about it, every time I think about how you just… went for it, I get so wet.” “I only did it because you dared me.” “That's what turns me on so much. I think… I mean, could I kill you? Would you let me kill you?” “You'd go to prison. Your kids-” “If we could do it so I don't get caught?” “Like… so, if we worked out a way for you to murder me so the police would never even suspect you… would I let you kill me?” “Yes.” “Okay. Sure.” She stared at me as if an arm had just grown out of my nose. “You're serious?” “Why wouldn't I be? I told you, dying doesn't bother me one bit.” “So why are you still alive?” she asked. “Nobody's ever asked if they can kill me before.” Judging from her expression, a second arm had just forced itself out of the other nostril. “That's your WHOLE reason? Like, if some guy just walked up to you in the street and asked “Excuse me miss, can I please shoot you in the face” you'd be like “Sure! Your place or mine?” I shrugged. “You dared me to jump off a cliff and I did.” “So if I asked you… can we go back to that cliff and you jump off again?” “If you want.” “What about… could I strangle you while I fuck you?” “So long as you can get away with it, I don't see why not.” “What about if I cut off your tits and then bisected you with a chainsaw?” “That sounds really painful. I don't want to do that.” “Okay, okay… what about a guillotine?” “Sam, are you going to fuck me, or just think of ways to kill me?” “Answer me. What about a guillotine?” I thought about it. “That could be interesting.” “Interesting?” I shrugged. “not many people die that way. It'd at least be an unusual way to go.” She picked up the biggest, blackest dildo we had and ordered me onto my belly. She grabbed my hair and started to fuck me with the dildo, making me moan and squirm. “Tell me you want to die” she ordered “Tell me you want me to cut your head off.” That wasn't actually how I felt but, whatever. I was a whore. Believe it or not, that was far from being the weirdest thing my clients asked me to moan for them, and I was good at improv slut-talking. “Ohhh yeah!” I moaned. “Stick my head in that thing and lop it right off! Fuck my corpse while it's still twitching!” Samantha went wild. She rode me hard, put me away wet, and left a huge tip when she went home. I didn't hear from her the next week, which was unusual. When she did show up the week after, she was rougher with me. She kept coming back to her beheading fantasy and had me moan and gasp and plead with her to please, please, take my head and put it on a spike. I really got into the act and managed to give her a shattering orgasm when I whispered into her ear “Ohh yeah, baby. I'm just a doll for you to break. That's it Sam, please kill me.” That went on for nearly four months, getting rougher and rougher and kinkier and kinkier, until one day she turned back toward me as she was putting her clothes on. She'd been the roughest I'd ever had that day, and I was feeling battered and tired but satisfied. I loved my job “Can I kill you?” she asked. “For real now. Please will you let me kill you?” I looked at her. “Are you serious?” I asked “Deadly serious. I want to kill you.” “Have you made sure you'll be safe afterwards? That your family won't be hurt by it?” “I've made sure.” “Then okay, sure. If you want to. Can I have a couple of weeks to clear my client list and book some vacation time so nobody gets suspicious?” “Okay.” she took a deep breath. “You're SURE?” “If you are.” She kissed me, deep and passionately. “Thank you SO MUCH.” “It's nothing.” “I know it is, to you. That's why you're so hot.” I know it must seem strange, that my last two weeks passed by just business as usual. Even I noticed in a kind of abstract, academic way that a normal person would have felt a pluck of trepidation or some little twinge of excitement at what I was doing. But I didn't. My own imminent execution seemed no more concerning to me than grocery shopping or some other mundane chore. The girls promised to hold down the fort and make me proud while I Was gone, I fucked my last few clients, and the day came when I'd scheduled with Sam. She picked me up in an SUV that was caked in fresh mud halfway up the doors. “Mud?” I asked, climbing in. “You'll see.” We didn't talk as she drove out of town, twenty, thirty, fifty miles until we came to a familiar stretch of clifftop where she went off-road and climbed up a dirt track that was the obvious source of her SUV's mud mask. It was that weird grey twilight that happens in the summer between nine and ten at night. Dull, grey, a little foggy out over the ocean, but you could see for miles. She'd built a guillotine on the clifftop. It looked a bit crude, like you'd expect when it was made by a woman I knew for a fact had never taken shop class, but it didn't look like it was about to fall apart either. It looked, in fact, like it would handily remove a head. “So do you want to fuck me first, or…?” I asked. “Are you for REAL?” she asked. “You're literally looking at an actual fucking guillotine and you're REALLY just like “do you want to cut my head off right away or in twenty minutes”?” I shrugged. “Yeah.” “...My God, you mean it. You really, genuinely don't give a fuck if I kill you.” “That's why I came here.” I said. “It's what you want, isn't it?” “It is! But.. I still don't really believe you. I keep expecting you to chicken out.” I sighed, and took off my clothes. It felt good to be naked out in the ocean air, with nothing between me and the sky but a few low clouds. Moisture feathered across my skin, tickling me and raising both goosebumps and my nipples. I spread my arms to drink in the sensation, then turned around and presented my wrists to her. Still incredulous, she cuffed my hands behind my back. I didn't say a word – I just sway-hipped my way over to the guillotine, lay down on it face-up an wriggled up it until my head was pressing at the lunette. “A little help?” I asked. She moved like a woman in a daze and lifted the lunette enough for me to wriggle until my head was through, and then she lowered it. I gave her a faintly smug look, pleased to have proven myself just like I had ten years earlier when I'd leapt from that same clifftop. The blade shone in the twilight above me, ready to end me. “Convinced yet?” “Jesus Christ, you've killed me” she said. “What?” “You've killed me! My… my plan for the safety of my family, it was… I really thought you were bluffing, that you jumped down to that ledge deliberately back then. I thought… I thought you'd back out.” “And?” “Well, I promised myself. Either I'd force you to PROVE that you're really afraid to die, or else… or else I'd...” “You can still back out” I said. “No, I can't. Because I have to KNOW. I Have to know that you're for real, that you're not just… calling my bluff, even now. You might just be fucking crazy enough that you'd do that.” “But what about your family?” “I've left a recording on my phone. I was going to delete it if you didn't go through with this. My family will get a huge insurance payout because this is a suicide. That's my safety plan for them. And besides, Jim's rich enough that they'll be just fine. He'll get another wife.” “Oh” There wasn't anything else I thought I could say, so I said: “Well… do you want to fuck before we die?” She gulped then snarled and tore her clothes off. She fetched a huge flexible purple double-ended dildo from the SUV and attacked me with her tongue, juicing me up to the point where she could drive the dildo deep into me while she kept licking, sucking and nibbling furiously on my clit. Her fingernails walked up my tummy and pinched painfully at my nipples, making me arch my back. It was easily the best fuck of my life. I came once from the oral stimulation, then again when she lubed up my ass and filled it with our favorite strap-on. And somewhere in the middle of it all, I got into it. “Ohhh god… I'm gonna die… oh fuck… fucking kill me… cut my whore head off!” “I'll do it, bitch! I'll do it and then I'll do myself!” “Oh fuck, kill me, please, PLEASE kill me!” “Shit, shit… I'm gonna fucking die. I'm gonna die here. Ohh… Ah! AHHH!!!” She came, hard. So too did I. We basked there in the afterglow, coming down from two mind-breaking orgasms. Finally, she opened her eyes and looked down at me. “Last chance to back out” I offered. “...No. I have to know that you mean it” she said. She reached over, took hold of the rope and gently unwound it from its cleat. Now the only thing between my body and my head was her shaking grip on a thin white length of cord. “...Can I kill you?” She asked. I gave her a triumphant look and said: “Do it.” She let go of the rope. It whipped upwards out of her hand. What had gone up had to come down, and I had a second or so to watch the blade accelerate hard towards me. Somehow, in that slow second, the only thing I thought of as I watched oblivion coming for me was to wonder whether this was still a trick of hers, and if there was some kind of safety peg built into the guillotine that would stop the blade at the very last instant. There wasn't. I felt a horrible choking pain in my whole neck, like whiplash and being punched in the throat at the same time, and a weird sense of tipping as my severed head rolled slightly backwards then toppled sideways , remaining on the catch table. Samantha sighed and picked me up by my hair. She aimed me at my own twitching corpse. “Well. There you are you crazy bitch. You're dead.” On a whim, she turned me around and kissed me. I returned the kiss with a cocky smile, which surprised her. “Still alive? Okay. Watch this.” She set me down facing the guillotine and with a heave, shoved my body off it. She hastily raised the blade again, managed to raise the lunette and put her head through it one-handed. She lay there for a second, breathing heavily and glanced at me. I gave her an encouraging smile, even as I watched a terrified tear roll down her face. “You crazy bitch” she repeated, and let go of the rope. That made two of us. The blade hammered down and her whole body flinched as it SCHLUNKed right through her neck. Whereas I'd been face up, she was face down and her head rolled more, rolled right off the catching table and onto the slope. The last I saw of Samantha was her head tumbling end over end down the gradient and then leaping into the air as it hit some natural bump. She sailed out over the edge of the same cliff that I'd flung myself from ten years before, and was gone forever. I smiled. That had been fun, and I had finally proven myself to Samantha. In a way, I'd won. It was a happy thought to end on, and so I shut my eyes and died without fear.