Posted by KnightStalker on January 18, 2001 at 14:43:57:
In Reply to: Strangle me posted by Taryn on January 17, 2001 at 21:07:29:
Taryn,
Shame on all of the guys who post to this board for neglecting to give your tender slender neck the attention you desire. I guess too many of them have been spending too much time "chatting" about all of the issues which have amply filled this board during the last 2 months.
Having been one of the few who responded to your request, I will not need to ask you about your physicall attributes. Yet, I will exercise a fair amount of poetic license with regard to you, and I intend to make this entry far more "up close and personal" than my earlier fantasy. Hope you like it.
KnightStalker
THE SURROGATE
Even though you had earned your equity card and had received a couple of decent roles in "B+" movies and TV dramas, almost nobody knows you or recognizes you on the street. Yes, your very attractive and intelligent, too. You've got shoulder length blonde hair, and a great body that stands 5' 7" tall. You've got emerald green eyes, beautiful skin, and a good disposition. Yet, except for the guys who typically ogle you on the street, you might as well be an "Orwellean Unperson" from 1984 for all the "recognition" you DON'T get while you are in public. Even your agent, Bernie Glantz, can't figure out why he doesn't get a lot of calls for you.
As luck would have it when you get back to your place, Bernie's on your voice mail with exhuberant enthusiasm for you to call him. As you speak to him he tells you he's got a unique assignment for you that will require you to update your passport so you can go to the French Riviera. Instead of it being a movie role, you find out that the State Department needs some help to iron out a problem there, and is willing to pay someone $100,000 for 5 to 6 days acting work. "Not bad", you both think.
In Cannes you get fully briefed by the State Department's local attache. It seems that one of the CIA's operatives, a nightclub dancer, has unwittingly become involved with the son of an Arab diplomat who lives in a villa on the sea. The operative's work has reach a critical point where she must travel for a few days to South America, but she cannot be "missed" by the diplomat's son. "So what's the problem?" you asked.
The problem is that, even though the operative had broken off her brief but intense relationship with the Arab, he has sworn to kill himself and the operative if he can't at least see her once a day. So what? Isn't the State Department equipped to deal with a nut case?" you impatiently blurt out. "So why do you need me? Let him kill himself in "my" absence," you reason.
That proves not to be a reasonable solution because the diplomat has to be kept happy. Not only does he have the ties to the oil cartel, but more importantly he has direct access to people who could significantly help in the middle east peace process. The untimely death or injury of his favarite son, Amal, would undo a lot of work the State Department had done in cultivating this relationship, especially if the unfortunate incident was caused by problem with a woman.
All you have to do, Taryn, is to dance at the nightclub each night that the CIA operative is absent. "Sounds easy enough", Bernie insisted. For the next two days you practice her routine and wear a black short wig to match the other woman as best as you can. While not a dead ringer for her, the heavy theatrical make-up and wig will be convincing when Amal shows up at the club each night to see you perform. He knows that he is not allowed to speak with you there.
With the other woman gone it's your turn to dance tonight. The outfit is very revealing, but acceptable to you. The small headpiece is bright metallic gold with a feather plume that pours out toward your back. It tickles your back a little as you move your head backward because the top of your outfit barely has anything covering your back. From the front, your costume consists of two small circular pads which cover 30%of your ample breasts and that are also bright metallic gold. They seem to be held in place with the help of a stretchy bright red fringe which circles your body just below your shoulders. The pads have a million rhinestones on them. Your bottom bikini style piece barely covers your private parts. Oh, and of course, you're wearing the highest high heels ever made for the stage.
You are quite sexy and provocative looking in the costume. As the evening progresses you become acclimated to all of the attention you are now getting. It's far cry from being back home, and by the 3rd night, you've actually come to enjoy this role. The only disturbing aspect is seeing Amal over at his private table. To help that volatile situation you gingerly wave to him after each show.
Finally it's 4AM and time to quit for the evening. As usual you finish changing into your "civies" and go upstairs to your room to shower and call it a night. Taryn, doesn't that feel better now. You've washed and blow dried your beautiful blonde hair. You've put on a teddy and covered it with a stretch lace robe while you give yourself a facial. Life is good....
There is the hint a of cheap cigarette smoke in the air, but you don't smoke. Ah, maybe it's Bernie, so you call out his name. You call it out again, still no response.
You put your facial materials down and cautiously move toward the little sitting area outside of the bedroom. The smell of the smoke is heavier. When you gingerly peer out of the door, your worst fear is staring right back at you. Amal greets you in a friendly manner while he is holding your black wig.
"Where's Marta?" he asks calmly. Obviously, Taryn, you don't really know where she is. Where's Marta?" he inquires again with a little edge in voice this time. "You didn't really think you could fool me? She stopped waving to me after we broke up."
Deciding your best hope is to partially come clean, you explain that she will return in a few days, and that he should be patient until she does.
"It's not for you to tell me what and how I should do anything, Taryn. You and your conspirators have disgraced me. I swore an oathe to see Marta every day for the next year or I would kill myself and her." Now you feel panic and a enough weakness in your knees that you are slipping into somewhat of a disfunctional state.
"Since the breaking of my oathe was not my doing", he continued, "only the conspirators must die."
He then drops his cigarette on the bare floor and moves purposefully toward you, Taryn. In terror, you retreat into the bedroom. Your righthand is raised and shaking in an attempt to muster a timid defense as he walks slowly toward you. Your left hand is clutching the base of your
lovely tender slender throat. Your emerald eyes are wide with abject fear.
You stumble over the edge of the small carpet by your bed, temporarily loosing your footing. Amal catches your fall by firmly holding your arms. His dark black eyes are looking right into yours. He's so close that you can smell his stale breath. Without a hint he grabs both lapells of your stretchy lace robe and roughly yanks them off of your creamy white shoulders.
"What are you going to do?", you stammer almost involuntarily.
"I'm going to show you how we cleanse the spirits of conspirators in my part of the world, Taryn. The first step is to remove the spirit", he explained.
Without another word his rough hands start to slide up your smoothe shoulders coming to rest around your tender slender neck. You feel his thumbs press ever so slightly as they search for the softest spot of your warm wind pipe. You start to tremble and twitch. He can feel your throat moving under his thumbs as you gulp from fear.
I'm an actress, not a conspirator!" You start to explain. "I haven't done anyth-th..." as your voice trails upward into an uncontrollable wheeze as Amal begins to squeeze your neck. "U-uth-th...gah-h" as you gurgle from the pressure of his thumbs on your throat. "Uh-gh-gh...muh-h", you manage to sputter from your gaping mouth.
Your green eyes bulge in their sockets as Amal continues to choke you. You can no longer utter any distorted gutteral protests because he has already squeezed the last breath out of your throat. You are totally helpless as he begins to shake you by your slender tender long neck. Your arms and hands can no longer find his hands to try to pry them from your crushed wind pipe. They slowly start to sag to your sides after they cannot even hold onto the lower part of Amal's shirt anymore.
Taryn, your eyes do not focus anyhere anymore. Your tongue begins to slide out of your mouth. Your body starts to spasm. Finally, the blackness of death engulfs you, but he till has you suspended from his hands. In a minute he releases your slender tender neck and lets you flop disjointedly to the floor. It won't take an autopsy to tell how you died. Your smoothe wind pipe blares out with those large reddish-purple blotches that Amal violently strangled you.
Feeling no remorse he leaves your room, well knowing that there will be no legal or moral consequences to strangling you. He will retreat to his father's diplomatic asylum in the embassy. His peers will congratulate him on saving his honor and cleansing the conspirator. You will have become another unfortunate statistic in this world.
You will also gain more than your 15 minutes of fame, too.
KnightStalker
: Whatever happened to you guys strangling me. I am still alive, come and get me