Posted by Megaton on August 11, 2000 at 21:35:48:
Phil stirred, put out his arm, found his lover gone. He climbed out of bed, walked through the hallway, found Meg
standing at the window, looking outside at the moonlit lake. Neither of them were wearing anything, but that was fine.
There would be no intruders here in the wilderness.
He put his arm around her. “What’s wrong, hon?”
She didn’t answer immediately. Just kept looking out the window. A tear ran down her cheek. Phil raised his hand to
her face, gently turned her head to face him. He had never seen such sadness in a person’s eyes. It frightened him.
“What is it?”
“How long have we been together?”
“I guess...a little over five months.”
“Phil, there’s a lot about me that you don’t know. I’ve done a lot of things I’m not proud of.”
She looked almost ethereal in the moonlight. He knew she had a problem with her self-image; that she thought of herself
as plain. He had done everything in his power to help her overcome that, but he knew that deep down she still thought
he was pretending when he told her she was beautiful. Evidently she had a problem with guilt as well. But guilt about
what?
“It can’t be that bad, hon,” he said, and meant it. “We all do some things we wish we hadn’t.”
She looked at his naked body, so strong, so desirable. Red-haired, freckled, with boyish good looks, Philip McCullen
was three years older than her. This cabin belonged to his uncle in Colorado; he was allowed to use it anytime he liked.
They’d been here about a week.
“Do you ever think about dying?” She looked into his beautiful green eyes, hoping he’d understand, hoping that
somehow he would have the same feelings she had. Hoping that maybe, just maybe, his knowing gaze would bear
witness with hers.
There was no glimmer of comprehension; instead, he looked puzzled, confused. “Why?” Then, suddenly, a touch of
fear, a sharp intake of breath. “Oh Jesus. You’ve got AIDS.”
“No!” Now she was angry. “Don’t you think I would have told you? No, it has nothing to do with AIDS. It --- oh,
shit. Forget it.” She squirmed from under his arm, walked into the bedroom, sat down on the edge of the bed. A second
later he followed.
“Meg, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. O.K.” She looked at him again, that strong virile body, big hands, muscular arms, powerful legs, his penis
dangling, slightly stiffened. She laughed. Started to cry uncontrollably.
He held her, tried to calm her down. Tried to sympathize without knowing what the problem was. How could he
know? How could he understand? When she looked at him, as much as she loved him, she thought other things. A
knife in his broad chest. A rope around his beautiful neck. A bullet for his trim, washboard abs. So many other things.
And she didn’t want that this time.
He was still rambling on: “Honey, please calm down. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. Meg, please, whatever’s wrong, tell
me. I love you.”
She choked back her tears, her sobs. Recovered her voice. “T-then I want you to do something for me.”
“What? I’ll do anything.”
“I want you to play dead for me.”
He said nothing, but his face betrayed his bewilderment. She hastily continued. “I want you to pretend like I killed you.
Then we make love.”
“Huh? That’s weird, hon...I’m sorry, I just don’t get it.”
“It’s just a fantasy. Don’t you have any fantasies? Don’t men have any fantasies?”
“Sure. But nothing like that. Sometimes I think it would be a turnon to watch two women making love, you know,
secretly.” He seemed almost ashamed of his admission.
“Well, it’s the same thing. I just want to pretend like you’re dead. I know it’s weird, but please just try it with me.”
He looked dubious. “Would -- would you ever actually do it?”
Lissome Candy Yuen’s almond-shaped eyes staring at the sky, the knife handle jutting out of her side, her white blouse
drenched in blood. She was the first person Meg had ever killed. And she had been a long time dying.
“Do what?”
Ravishingly handsome Bobby Carper, who had met her after the Blur concert, swinging slowly back and forth at the end
of his noose. His face purple, his eyes bulging, arms and legs dangling limply downward. His penis hard.
Phil laughed, nervously. “You know...”
Strong, sinewy Kevin Parks, the exercise fanatic, iron fingers digging, groping at the three small holes the nailgun had
punched in his massive chest. Big brown eyes wide, mouth choking out silly, futile words as he died: “Meg...my
heart...O God...h-heart...” And silence.
“...kill someone.”
Kim Bowman, soft, cuddly, skin the colour of deep, rich chocolate. The first lesbian Meg had ever loved, the one who
taught her the pleasures of women loving women. Kim Bowman’s open eyes as Meg lifted the pillow from her slack
face, Kim’s plump body sprawled on the bed.
“No!” Meg put surprise on like a mask. “Of course not!”
Rita Blakely, gorgeous, Junoesque manager of the Gadget Shoppe, where Meg had worked for a month and a day.
Rita’s beautiful features blue, tongue hanging out of her wide, sensual mouth, clothesline tied tightly around her swollen
neck. Tears on her cheeks.
“It’s just a fantasy, Phil. Just make-believe. Just pretend that you’re dead.”
Danielle Ramplin, tall, blonde, athletic. Beautiful. One of Meg’s former classmates, lying in a pool of her own drying
blood, a red, raw hole torn at the base of her slim white throat. Dead eyes seductively half-closed, gazing up at her killer.
Meg shook off the memories, went on without a pause. “Would you do that for me? I know it sounds crazy, but I really
wish you would.” Because if you don’t, she thought, you’ll be next on my list. And I don’t want that. Not this time. I
want you to be beside me all the time. For real. Not like the others. I want to touch you, to love you, to grow old with
you. I want to feel your heart beat, strong and safe and sure. So please do this for me. Please live my fantasy, so you
won’t have to die for it.
“O.K. Tell me what I have to do...”
In the bedroom, Phil got up, stretched, turned around to see Meg sitting up in bed, finger pointed at his chest like a
pistol. Feeling like an idiot, he went on with the performance: “Meg! God, no! Not that!” Jeez, this was ridiculous. But
if she got off on it, he’d go through with it.
She fired: “Bang!”
He clutched his chest, stumbled backward, remembering days of playing army when he was much younger.
“Bang! In the stomach this time.”
One hand clutching his heart, the other clawing at his abs. He bent over, gasped “Oooh...why? Why?”
“Because I love you. Bang! That one kills you.”
Obediently he fell to the floor. Meg was upset. “No! Stumble around a little first; you know, ‘do not go easy into that
long night’ and all that. It’s your death scene, ham it up some. Stand up and I’ll shoot you again.”
He stood, got shot, stumbled around, fell on the bed, reached up and caught her around the waist, then slowly slid down
off the bed, his hands tracing her belly, her thighs, her legs, finally rubbing, holding her feet before he fell back down into
the floor.
Meg felt the old excitement coming on, maybe not as strong as the real thing, but at least something was happening for
her. She rolled off the bed, knelt down beside him, began to kiss him, to caress him, to run her hands across his limp
body, to stroke his neck, his wide shoulders, his chest. He played along. She began to pose him, to stretch him out in
the floor, disappointed to see that he didn’t have an erection. She had hoped he’d be turned on by the roleplaying as
much as she was.
As she kissed his chest, he suddenly opened his eyes, embraced her. Held her to him. She felt his penis stir against her
thigh.
“No,” she said. “you don’t hold me. I hold you. You’re dead, you can’t do anything.”
“If I can’t do anything, how can I make love to you? This is too weird, hon. I’m sorry. I just can’t get into it.”
She relaxed, let him hold her. It wasn’t working out. None of it was working out. Might as well just let him have his
way.
“Are you angry?”
“No. It’s all right.” And it was, she thought. It was fine. They’d try again some other night.
A little while later they made love. Meg pretended to come, told him he was the best lover she’d ever had, and not to
worry about the roleplaying thing. It was a mistake.
He agreed, rolled over and was soon asleep.
She watched him breathing, there beside her. Looked at his beautiful face as he slept, and turned away, breathing hard.
Unable to sleep. Tossing. Turning. She tried masturbating, gave up, tried to sleep again, Phil’s snoring filling her ears.
She was empty. Unfulfilled. Unsatisfied.
And she couldn’t go on like that.
Finally she sat up. Almost without conscious thought, her arm stretched out to the nightstand; her hand passed by the
thimbles, the pincushion, the spool of thread and seized on the shears, the long, sharp shears. She turned to her lover,
put a hand on his shoulder, ran it lightly, gently along his neck, his cheek.
In his sleep he smiled.
She put her hand over his mouth, gently. And with the other hand she drove the shears firmly into the back of his neck,
right at the base of his skull, angled upward. The beautiful eyes opened wide and terrified, the strong, sexy body heaved
beside her, arms thrashing, legs kicking. For an instant.
He made a noise against her palm. It might have been her name.
She worked the scissors up and down, in and out, severing Phil’s spinal cord, destroying the medulla, the part of his
brain that controlled the autonomic functions of his body.
Like breathing. And the beating of the heart.
He thrashed and tossed and shuddered in every fibre, sweat pouring from every pore. And went limp. His eyes rolled
back in his head. Meg released his mouth, moved her hand to his hard chest, knowing that she would find no heartbeat
there. She knew exactly where to stab to kill him quickly, mercifully. Such were the benefits of a solid high-school
education.
She rolled him over, pulled the sheets down, looked at his shaft, rock hard, ridged with veins. Balls dangling. Death
often did that to a man. Excited, feeling herself beginning to drip, she straddled him, closed her eyes, impaled herself on
his huge hard-on. Began rocking, moving it up and down within her, gyrating her hips to increase her pleasure.
Groaned.
She opened her eyes, looked down at Phil; her small, thin hands on his broad chest, fingers spread. His flesh was still
warm, yielding, inviting; his dead freckled face more handsome now than ever. While he lived she couldn’t reach
orgasm; now she felt it building up within her, charging her nerves with almost unbearable ecstasy.
Panting, she worked his hard stiffness faster, harder, deeper within herself; the mattress creaked in rapturous rhythm. She threw
back her head, cords standing out in her neck, and cried out with aching bliss as she came. Her heart pounded; she was
wet with sweat.
Still holding him within her, she took him by his strong neck and pulled him up into a sitting position, wrapped her arms
around him, pulled his body to hers in a burning embrace. Covered his face with kisses, whispering to him over and
over: “I love you I love you I love you...” Came again and again.
Finally, when she could bear no more, she laid down on his body, still holding him tight, delighting in the feel of the
warm, muscular young body that was hers, hers always, hers forever.
In the past she had grieved for her lovers, when she realized the finality of their fate; tonight a crossroads had been
reached, and she shed no tears. At last Meg accepted her true nature, with neither regret nor guilt. And she would
never again mourn for a life she took.
Phil's love had at least accomplished that much.