A special beach

Petra Bee was an active participant in the Black Plague BB (of blessed memory). She has a website, but, unfortunately it is no longer open to the public.

A Special Beach is one of my favorite stories. It was never finished, but it still is outstanding as it stands.

A special beach

(c) Petra Bee

(I) A very special beach

There were a number of beaches near to my home, and naturally they had developed different reputations, or were frequented by different people. I haven't the faintest idea how these things come about, but everybody knew, and wouldn't dream of going to the ‘wrong' beach. There was one that was frequented by Yuppies, working singles, and that sort of people, one that seemed only for the middle-aged with small children; one seemed to be for people who liked to play radios too loudly and eat junk food and drive horrid cars ... and so on. There was even one rather secluded beach (no road access, but a long walk) where there was some nudity and topless sunbathing. And one, even more secluded, was a special beach, quite unlike the others. I don't know how it had evolved, but it was a beach with a very strict and clear set of rules, and everybody agreed to them.

It was a killing beach. The agreement was that girls, under appropriate circumstances, could be killed on the beach. And everybody who went there knew the rules. To be sure, it wasn't quite so simple, and the rules were complicated. Girls were not to be bothered on the beach if they were wearing a bathing suit or other clothes. But if a girl went topless, then she was indicating a willingness to be killed, but had to be asked. And could refuse if she wanted to; it was up to her. But if a girl went topless and bottomless, then she could be killed by anyone who wanted to, by any means they wanted to use. A girl who went naked was offering herself to be killed. And to make the game more exciting for all concerned, there was at all times one person -- usually a guy, but not always -- who was the beach 'Joker': he could wander around and either tell a girl to undress completely (thus enabling others to kill her), or could kill her himself, clothed or not. The Joker didn't do this very often, usually just once or twice a day, but one never knew. All girls going onto the beach had to wear "toe tags" (actually, they were ankle bracelets, but always called toe tags) which indicated what was to happen to their bodies if they were killed: girls could elect to have their bodies returned home or given to someone in particular, or just left there for anyone to do what they wanted with the body. Things also sometimes got organised, and girls would be organised into teams and contests held (tug of war, or volley-ball), with the losing team all being killed. When these happened there would always be a small crowd to watch, and the Joker could be particularly active on such occasions.

Of course the place was a favourite haunt for gaggles of school-girls old enough to be allowed onto the beach, and for groups of girlfriends who would go to the beach on a dare. And many a mixed group of friends, using the beach and the inevitable tension and menace and temptation as a way of breaking the ice, or just to watch what was happening. Interestingly enough, the beach was also frequented by single girls who would come to the beach and just sun-tan, enjoying the Russian roulette of the Joker wandering around and ordering the occasional girl to take everything off. Single girls would also sometimes go and sunbathe topless, perhaps just to see who would ask, and what they would offer ... sort of tempting fate and testing the waters. And of course we would all wander around the beach looking for the dead bodies and try to imagine what had happened or what it was like to be killed, or even better, see a girl getting killed.

I started to go to the beach with a bunch of girlfriends in our last year of school, as soon as we were 'legal'. At the time I was pretty much like every other school-girl, and not very experienced. Just so you know who is writing for you, I had a pretty good body at eighteen, and I knew it, and enjoyed it. I was one of the tallest girls in the school, and if I had wanted to, I suppose I could have gone to modeling classes. I have quite light skin and muddy blue-green eyes, a high forehead and a strong chin. I don't like my cheek-bones, which I think are too high and prominent, and my lips are the best part of my face: I'm lucky there, as I can make them big and sensuous with a bright slash of strong red lipstick, and very dramatic. I have boring dark brown hair which grows very thick and is altogether too straight for my liking; by the time I was eighteen I had already spent the equivalent of the national debt of a minor banana republic making it wavy or curly, depending on fashion. I have always kept it very long, long enough to cover my breasts (so if ever I am called upon to be Lady Godiva, I am prepared). My body is fairly slender but I'm not what you would call skinny (sure, I should lose a bit of weight, like everybody), with pretty good and firm breasts -- I just pass the pencil test, if you know what that means -- and I exercise regularly and carefully to make sure that they remain like that, and in the right bra I can show off enough cleavage to catch men's eyes. My nipples are pink and large and when I'm cold or aroused or they just get into the mood, stand out. I love to watch the way men notice, and try not to show they're looking; like when I don't wear a bra and guys can't take their eyes off me when I'm walking. I was lucky that when they first they became large and heavy(maybe I was fourteen or fifteen at the time) I had a friend with an older sister who taught me how models walk, moving legs, hips and torso in a way that makes unsupported breasts sway with the body, and not jiggle ridiculously. I walk like that a lot, when I'm feeling like teasing. Naturally I pretend not to notice the looks men give me, but of course I do, and I love it -- especially if the men are half decent. I've never managed to get one of those flat, sucked in tummies -- too much exercise and self-denial -- but I still manage to get into skin-hugging skirts and don't bulge unduly. Long legs always look good, and I've got long, slender legs, and have always enjoyed showing them off. Whenever I can, I wear indecently short skirts. The part of me that I think is the sexiest is my skin: before the summer and the acquisition of any tan (not that I ever manage to get much of tan), and I'm the same creamy white all over, and I love it.

(II) the first time

The first time I went to the killing beach was undoubtedly the most exciting experience of my life -- much more exciting that the first time I had a man, which had happened only a little time before (and had initially been a bit of a damp squib: inexperienced boys fumbling about the place without the faintest understanding of a woman's anatomy, and the self-control of a thirsty alcoholic in a bottle shop! It’s a wonder that we keep trying). That first time that the four of us went on a mutual dare, all very firmly in single-piece bathing costumes and utterly terrified of the Joker, who we did not see. But we did see a couple of dead girls and a third one killed, and they were the most erotic things I had ever seen in my life. I had never really thought about getting killed until that day; it remained something I though about constantly ever afterwards.

We had just about *sulked* onto the beach, skirting the cliffs and piles of rocks and logs along the edges of the beach, rather than walking directly onto the main area. Finally, near the shoreline, we walked towards the middle of the beach, amongst the boulders and logs, feeling the hot sand on our bare feet, wondering what the Joker would look like, how we would recognise him. There weren't that many people around, and the sunbathers were far apart.

When I saw my first dead girl, I couldn't take my eyes off her, and neither could my companions; I felt myself so aroused I was worried it would show. The first one we noticed was lying on her own on a large dark red towel, some distance from any other sunbathers. If she hadn't been naked, I don't think we would have noticed her. She was a deeply tanned dark-haired girl in her early or mid 20s, with very large breasts and wide, ample hips; she wasn't a skinny woman but had a wonderfully sexy, ample figure, and lying on her back her breasts made two gentle almost symmetric mounds rising from her ribs, without sun-tanning marks. She was lying with eyes closed and the handle of a large knife sticking out of her right breast, just by the nipple. She looked quite composed, peacefully asleep. The four of us drew near to her and went quiet, each staring at her body in wonderment. I had never seen a real, dead person before, and all the films and fantasies hadn't prepared me for this. She was so sexy, so yielding and defenceless, naked with that knife sticking out of her breast. Perhaps what was most surprising and strangely erotic about her naked body was its stillness. As I looked at it with such intensity, it did not move; her chest did not rise and fall, there were no little motions of eyes or hands ... she was utterly still. There was a trickle of blood from the wound down her breast and down her side, and a tiny trickle of blood from the corner of her open mouth. Her arms lay bent up about her shoulders and her legs straight and slightly apart. The effect of the blood on her almost coffee-brown evenly tanned skin transfixed me: the blood seemed to score across her perfect brown skin, the knife seemed huge and the tiny bit of blade remaining between the hilt and her breast seemed to penetrate her body with a still violence that made me shiver. Shiver with excitement. Instinctively I gently touched my right breast where the knife penetrated her, feeling her knife inside me. My stomach tightened at the thought of that knife deep inside my body. It felt wonderful, and I wanted to lie down beside her and lie just like her, with a knife in me just like her. My skin suddenly felt tight, and I felt a tingling sensation sweep me from my thighs up to my chest. I couldn't believe what was going through my head. I couldn't believe what I was feeling deep inside my body. I wanted to feel that knife in me. All four of us stood still and gawked at her in the most obvious way, unable to move until a rather unpleasant weedy man came up to us and asked if we were going to be taking our clothes off -- at which point we almost ran off in fear.

We wandered the beach more amongst the sunbathers, and came across another dead girl lying alongside a log; this girl was rather smaller and blond, probably no older than us, with little suntan, small and soft pink breasts and large pink nipples, and a thin waist and flat tummy (so flat that her hip bones stuck out). Her eyes and mouth were open and her arms outstretched, and she was wearing a very skimpy and high-cut bikini bottom that made her slender legs look miles long. We stood around her, looking down at the body. There was no obvious wound -- until Heather noticed that the necklace was not a necklace, but a piece of rather nice silvered curtain cord. I felt she make us look frumpy and unsexy, over-clothed and out of place: the thought went through my head of taking off my bathing costume and going naked. As soon as the thought passed through my head I was horrified: I was asking to be killed. I wanted to bend down and touch the girl, but couldn't bring myself. What would it be like to have the cord put around my neck, and to feel it tighten. Did this girl resist? Would I resist? Would I feel my body go limp? I tried to imagine the feeling, imagine feeling my legs and arms flailing in pointless resistance ... and I tried to feel what she was feeling, lying there immobile and dead for all to look at.

April could see that we were again transfixed by this girl, and she hissed at us to move on. We walked a little further until I saw a topless girl lying with a man next to her; I suggested to the others that we park ourselves here and take in a bit of sun. I turned very deliberately and obviously to the topless girl and glared in her direction so that the other three would understand the point: we were to stop here and see what happens.

We were soon rewarded. The man got up and went for a swim, loping purposely down the beach, showing off a strong, athletic body. Egotist, I thought. Only a few minutes later he came back from the water, gleaming with wetness, holding something in his hand. He kneeled and leaned over the topless girl and cuddled her, rubbing his chest on hers (oh, how I wanted to be her and have that wet chest rub my breasts!), and then whispered into her ear. She replied, putting an arm around the back of his neck and kissing him deeply. She continued to lie there, quite still, her arms on his and her legs a little bent up at the knee, and moving apart, whilst he leaned back and picked up the object he had brought back with him from the water, and unsheathed a knife. He leaned back over her, resting on one arm, and returned to embrace her and she arched her chest up slightly, her arms reaching around his head to return his embrace, locking him into her embrace. With his free hand pushed the knife into her tummy about four or five inches above the navel. The girl's tummy and buttocks and legs tensed and her heels dug into the sand, jerking her body upwards. Her legs scrabbled the sand in short sharp jerking motions, pushing her body into an arch. The collective intake of breath from the four of us was in perfect unison: I couldn't believe what I was seeing, and couldn't believe what I was feeling inside myself. The knot inside my stomach was like ... well, like someone had just pushed a knife into it. The girl continued to hold the man and kiss him, but her lower body was in spasm and her legs jerked as the knife was pushed deeper into her, and blood began to flow out from around the blade.

I watched open-mouthed. The sight made me want a man inside me so much that I only had to move my legs slightly as I sat on the sand to send the most exquisite vibrating tingle down the inside of my legs and up, deep into my innards; I moved a bit more and crossed and re-crossed my legs, as if nervous, and I could feel an orgasm gently beginning deep inside me. I whispered 'oh god' to myself, but the others didn't hear; they were either feeling the same thing, or were so transfixed by the dying girl's stretching and writhing that they could not hear me. As I moved my pelvis and legs to bring my climax nearer, the girl was also moving, almost exactly as I wanted to move myself: she lifted her knees up and then thrust her pelvis up, then arched her back up a couple of inches into the air, pushing her legs straight and out, quivering. As she did, the man pulled at her bikini bottom and had it off in a second, and was on top of her. He didn't even bother to pull the knife out, but lay heavily on top of her, pushing it deeper into her; she groaned very softly and deeply, and we watched -- probably none of us breathing -- as he satisfied himself with a couple of deep rhythmic thrusts. I think if I had had the courage, and could have moved my legs, I'd have walked over and stretched myself out next to the girl and asked him to do the same to me. His movements became less powerful, and then he lay still for a few seconds, still covering her with his body. Then he pulled himself back, kneeling between her legs, pulled his shorts up, and after a long look at the girl and an affectionate caress of her thighs, stood up and walked back in the direction of the water; his hair and body still wet from his swim, it had all taken so little time.

We all continued breathlessly to watch the girl until we realised she was still alive, still moving. The blood ran from her stomach wound down her side and the towel she lay on had a growing red patch, but she was breathing and trying to move her legs and hips. Heather stood up suddenly, whispering "lets look!" I glanced around: there was nobody near, nobody had witnessed the scene apart from us. Every movement of my legs and torso sent icy shivers of pure pleasure through my lower body. I found the strength to stand up, and the two of us walked over to her. I think I was still climaxing a bit, and walked awkwardly as I made my legs move, trying to stimulate myself more. Keeping my hands from touching myself took immense effort. We reached the girl, and knelt down, one on each side of her. She was very young, very pretty, with full red lips and masses of long wavy fair hair in the most wondrous disarray, over her face, shoulders, and around her head. She had bigger breasts than I had seen from further away, and lightly tanned, golden skin. She was clearly in pain -- or was it pain?-- and her body movements were uncoordinated and jerky. She opened her eyes -- large, sensuous eyes -- and focused on our two faces above her. She was trying to say something, whispering and gasping as her torso jerked, but I could not make it out. Heather put her ear near to the girl's mouth for a few seconds, and then pulled back rather sharply. She looked at the girl, who was looking back very intently, continuing to mouth something. Heather looked at me, giving me a rather curious look I couldn't understand, and then she settled back on her haunches. I thought she was moving back to look better at the girl's jerking body, but she then shifted her balance, and reached out to touch the dying girl. She touched a breast very gingerly, and then ran her finger down her skin towards the knife, then along her lower tummy. I watched, not understanding.

Heather then leaned forward, resting on her right arm and with her left hand began to fondle the girl. The girl relaxed and almost smiled, a calmness settling on her face and body. Her eyes seemed to go unfocused and her breathing seemed more relaxed, and I could see Heather's fingers were probing deep in her. The girl began to groan, and move her body against Heather's hand, and mixed with her jerks and spasms, her hips moved rhythmically against Heather. She opened her legs wider for Heather's hand. She gasped and drew a deep breath, opened her eyes and mouth wide, and let out an almost silent groan that wracked her body: Heather was clearly bringing her to a climax as she came nearer and nearer to death. Her breaths became short and shallow and she arched her chest up, pushing her breasts upwards, stretching her arms out at right angles to her body, her fingers taut. A series of little short groans as she stretched her legs out, and she fell back completely silent and motionless, staring straight at me. She was dead, dying at the peak of her climax. Perhaps death was a climax?

Heather left her fingers in the dead girl for a number of seconds as we both watched the still body. I finally reached out and touched a breast, feeling the warm, soft skin, and wondering at its lack of response. Heather pulled her wet fingers out, and did the same. We then noticed that the other two girls had come over to us, and were standing behind us. I pulled back in embarrassment, as did Heather. We looked silently at each other, clearly both of us excited and aroused beyond words. I wanted Heather to fondle me in the same way ... but I wanted her to kill me, too. I felt I was standing aside myself, and it wasn't really me that was thinking these things: part of me was horrified at what I was thinking to myself, part of me wanted to pull off the ugly encumbrance of my bathing costume and stretch out naked and open and yielding, too, and await the feel of a knife pushing inside me.

It was April who broke the silence, saying in a very shaky voice that we should go, it was time to go home, we ought not to be here. Silently we stood up, picked up our bags and towels, and followed the other two back up the path out of the beach. And I noticed when asked if we wished to give up out toe-tags, we all muttered that we'd keep them as we would be back soon. We drove home and parted in almost complete silence, each completely absorbed with the unbelievable eroticism of what we had just experienced. I knew that all four of us had had some sex before -- we had discussed it in some detail -- but we had never had anything like the feelings we had felt that afternoon. I went upstairs to my room and undressed, pulling my clothes off violently, threw myself on the bed and made myself climax as I had never done before. I lay there on my back with my legs stretched out as far open as I could, the small of my back arched upwards, dreaming of men inside me and knives through my body, lying immobile in the hot sun.

(III) Heather

Needless to say, we started to frequent the killing beach either singly or in groups, daring each other to go and play games there. Seasons passed, summers slipped by. I would sometimes go on my own, and would dare myself to go topless, but never had the courage. I would lie there and dream of being topless, and saying "no" to men who asked ... and then "yes" to a particularly good looking man -- but these were dreams, and I never did anything more than watch. I watched with tense fascination when the Joker wandered around, as those where the moments that I feared most, anxiously watching to see if he would come my way, if he would notice me and order me to take my bathing suit off. We would also go in groups, sometimes the same old four friends, sometimes with others, and with boys.

On this particular occasion we were the same old four friends, along with our current boy-friends (or crushes, as they were ... we were all of us now in our early 20s, and none of us felt much inclination to be faithful to them for more than a week or two) for an afternoon's amusement. It was to prove to be a remarkable, unforgettable afternoon. The boys had all been there before, and were more than happy at the suggestion of going as a group. When we all settled in on the sand, stripped down to our bathing kit, it was more than obvious that the boys were happy to be there with us. They were drinking in our bodies. By now we had all long given up our one-pieces, and enjoyed vying with each other in wearing the skimpiest and most outrageous bikinis. Banter continued in a rather suggestive way for a while until it was agreed to play cards. We started out with money -- a few coins -- but then Heather's boy suggested notional clothes. We would imagine ourselves dressed, and in imagination take our clothes off as we lost rounds. In the circumstances, it seemed hugely funny, and we set to. Soon we were all undressing in our collective imaginations, as one or other of us lost each round, all to general merriment and delight at the suggestive implications of what we were doing. We even started to mime taking our clothes off as we had to surrender garment after garment. The boys seemed to like that, too. Me taking off my imaginary stockings was worthy of an obscure Oscar, I thought. Do they give a prize for Best Disrobing of Minor Garment? What a pity.

We went quiet when Heather came down to wearing just bra and panties, and then lost another round: somehow, without saying anything we suddenly all knew that the game was no longer virtual. She looked long and hard at us, as we all looked intently at her. We were sitting on the sand in a circle, with the cards on a blanket in the middle, only a few feet across the space. She said quietly that the rules of the game were the rules of the game and whilst not taking her eyes off her boyfriend, she reached behind her and undid the back string of her top. With her other arm she held the cups to her breasts whilst she let the back open, and then took the arm out of the strap, her dark hair falling over her arms. None of us moved. She put the free arm across her breasts, and released the other strap. She pushed her long hair back, clearing it from covering her breasts. She sat up with her back absolutely straight, still looking at her boy, and let the top fall into her lap.

I had seen Heather naked in the showers before, but was still astounded at how wonderful she looked. She had large and pointed breasts, and seen as she was sitting, seemed larger and more perfectly rounded than I remembered. Her tummy was tight with the strain of sitting as she was, making her look even more perfectly sculptured. In the back of my mind I know what was going to happen, and we all probably did, but no one said anything. The boys couldn't take their eyes off her, and I could understand why. The tension was electric. Eventually April muttered "just don't ask her, anyone, please!" and nobody did. The next round was lost by one of the boys, and the next was lost by April, who then was also down to just her notional bra and panties. I think April was getting a bit frightened. My mind was racing: how do we end this? Heather seemed unconscious of being topless, and was moving about as she sat as if all were normal; all the rest of us kept looking at her beautiful breasts as they moved and jostled with her body. I ached to be topless too.

The next round was lost by Heather again, and if possible, we became quieter. I do not know what prevented us from all just saying that fine, the game was over, and moving on to other things. But we did not. Our attention was glued to Heather again, no one saying anything, waiting for her response. She seemed to have already made up her mind, as she did not hesitate; sitting on the ground she reached around her sides to her hips and undid the strings holding each side of the bottom of her bikini, letting it start to slip off her hips. She looked down at herself, and then looked up at us. She shook her head, flicking her long hair behind her naked shoulders. "I think it had better be one of you, please" she said quietly. What she meant didn't need explanation. She was going to be naked, so someone on the beach was going to kill her shortly, and she was simply sitting there, calmly, accepting her fate. I felt myself getting tense and stiff, and I knew I was aroused. I could feel my nipples go hard and push out against the soft elastic material of my top. Absent-mindedly, I stroked a breast, feeling my hard nipple.

She looked at her boyfriend. "Will you go and get a knife, please" she said, quietly. He looked around helplessly, and one of the others stood up: "I'll get one" he said, and walked off. Heather pulled her boy towards her, pulling his face to hers, her long arms around his neck. "Kill me" she whispered, looking intently into his eyes, then kissing him long and deeply. He remained more or less motionless. When she pulled her head back and looked at him again, I could see a flash of irritation in her face. She was thinking that he was a wimp. An arm remained on his shoulder, her back arched to push her breasts forward towards him. "Kill me!" she whispered, more insistently. The other boy came back, and returned to his place in the circle. He carefully put a knife into the middle of the carpet, laying it amongst the cards. It seemed to me to be the longest knife I had ever seen in my life ... almost a thin sword. I was horrified at what I was witnessing, and for a second wondered if I was going to faint. But my interest in watching what was happening overruled my weakening head: I had to see what happened to Heather. I had to feel what was happening to her, I had to watch her die.

The boy picked up the knife and held it weakly, looking around the group. Heather turned her torso to face him and pushed a finger into her left breast, at her nipple. "Here!" she said. The boy held the knife and rather vaguely pointed it to her. The silence around the circle was absolute: we had all stopped breathing. We were all looking at the point of the knife, at her breast, waiting. The boy sobbed and put his head down "I can't" was all he could say. Heather sat up more, arching her back more, pushing her chest out. She looked at April -- who quickly averted her gaze -- and then at me. I looked back. "Petra," she said clearly, almost coldly, "please kill me". She took the knife from the boy's hand and holding it by the blade, proffered the handle to me. She pushed herself up onto her knees, allowing the bikini bottom to fall between her legs. She seemed unconcerned that she was naked. The boys, on the other hand, were watching with their mouths open. She stretched out her arm towards me, bringing the knife within reach: "please!" I took the handle. She settled down on her heels again, reaching back to pull her hair back, exposing her breasts and throwing her chest forward, arching her back, shaking her head to free all the hair to cascade down her back. "Now!" she hissed. I shuffled forward on my knees, sweat pouring down my back and in between my breasts: I couldn't believe what was happening. My eyes were fixated by her body, drinking it in ... desiring it like a man must desire a woman, aching to kill her -- yes, I realised I wanted to! -- and horrified that I was about to push that huge knife into her perfect body, that I wanted to violate the perfect skin of her perfect breast. No: I wanted her to kill me, I wanted to feel that knife in *my* breast. I don't think in my confusion I knew what I was doing, except that it all seemed to be a dream, cut off from the world outside, and that I felt a tension in my gut and my sex that ached and hurt it was so strong. Again she gestured to her breast, and I placed the tip of the blade just to the side of her nipple. She was looking down at it, as I was. I pushed a bit harder, and the knife pushed the skin in. Heather stopped breathing, only to whisper "yes!" I kept pushing, but the knife only seemed to make a deeper indent in her skin. I pushed a bit harder, and felt the knife move. Heather sucked in her breath -- the knife had cut through her skin. The indentation lessened, the skin was starting to wrap around the blade, to accept, to embrace the intrusion of the blade. For a split second, I felt I was a man coming inside her, at the moment of penetration. Or perhaps I was being penetrated by a man. I increased the pressure on the knife, and her mouth opened wide, a slow gasp escaping from her, ever so quietly. Neither of us took our eyes off the knife, which was now gently sliding into her. I felt no resistance, no sensation -- I just carried on pushing, and the knife slowly went deeper and deeper into her breast. Heather’s pained gasping tuned into a quiet groan -- was it a groan, or was it a quiet scream of ecstasy? The knife went deeper into her breast, but her groan did not change; her mouth opened more and more, and she started to lean forward, pushing her breast onto the knife. Finally, after what seemed an hour, the hilt arrived at her skin. I felt her breast against my fingers, felt the warm and soft flesh yield to the pressure of my hand as I pushed the knife. This was the breast of Heather, and I was killing her. My spine tingled. I let go. Heather started to breathe deeply, shuddering, and her left hand came up to cup her breast from below. Her right hand held my shoulder to steady her.

"Thank you" she said, her words laboured, "that's wonderful." Our eyes met, neither of us moved for what seemed an aeon. I was desperately trying to see into her mind, feel what she was feeling. What did it feel like to have that piece of metal deep inside one's breast? Finally, she whispered "fuck me" almost inaudibly, "you've killed me, now fuck me."

Still on her knees, her body began to shake. Her breathing was laboured, and blood began to drip from her mouth. From the wound a torrent of blood coursed around her fingers and down her stomach and legs. I saw her eyes wander, and then roll up in their sockets, and my arm automatically went out to reach behind her to catch her as she began to fall backwards. My had found her back slippery and wet -- with blood. The knife had gone all the way through her. Her head was rolling backwards, and I couldn't stop her from falling back. Her legs were under her, and she grunted as she tried to straighten them. She let out the most chilling gurgling noise, and arched her back violently, kicking her legs until she was supporting herself on her calves and her head, shaking. Her arms seemed to be digging into the sand. The shaking became violent, and she collapsed back onto the sand, her head pushing back and her back arching spasmodically. Then she lay calmly, quite still, and her eyes focused on mine. I reached down and touched her breast, thinking I would pull the knife out. I started to tug at it, but she winced in pain -- and I couldn't move it. I stroked her cheek, watching as her eyes followed me. I knew what I had to do. I moved my right hand down her body, not looking at it but feeling her as I moved -- breast, tummy, hips, the crease of her leg, hair. I found what I was looking for, and began to fondle her with the gentlest touch. Her eyes opened wide and sparkled and her legs moved open, and her pelvis pushed up to meet me. After the violence of her writhing, her body was strangely calm for a moment with just her tummy and pelvis moving. I touched her, so gently, but exactly where I knew she wanted to be touched. She groaned again, but this was a different groan; her eyes staring intently at nothing. Then she began to jerk in violent spasms, her mouth wide open and her head pushed back. After three or four more spasms -- it seemed an infinity -- Heather let out a long deep moan and then went completely limp. I continued to fondle her, but there was no reaction. I continued, and April -- I had not noticed her beside me -- touched my right arm, taking my hand away from her. Heather was dead.

I sat back. I hadn't felt any sensation since I had first held the knife in my hand. My head began to swim: now I was going to faint. I'm not sure I could see anything around me except Heather's dead body, her stretched-out limbs and her staring, open eyes and mouth. And that knife sticking out of her breast. I don't know how long I sat there, looking at her dead body. I wanted to be that dead body. I wanted to make love to Heather. I don't remember much of the rest of that day at the beach; I remember vaguely we stayed with Heather's body for a while, and I think some of the boys played with it. At some point April and Tracy were cuddling me, and I remember feeling the comfort of their bodies. Eventually we packed up and left, leaving Heather lying on the sand, spread-eagled and looking more beautiful that anything I had ever seen.

My boyfriend put me in his car, and I remember asking him to take me back to his place. I know it was a struggle to get up the stairs and into his flat as my legs were weak ... weak with tension and excitement. When we got in, I remember distinctly coming as near to raping a man as a girl can. As soon as we closed the door I pushed him onto the floor and tore his clothes off, and sitting on top of him, straddling him, I pushed him inside me and fucked him until I cried. I didn't care in the least about him or his satisfaction, I just took what I needed. I didn't worry about showing him when I climaxed, or coo-ing and reacting to him, I just took what I needed. No little grunts and groans to encourage him and make him think he was wonderful, I just used his body, taking what my body needed. This wasn't making love, this was fucking. I felt like screaming I needed him so much. Then we went to the bed, and I made him blind-fold me and tie me to the four corners of the bed so tightly that I couldn't move, and I played dead and he made love to me. It was wonderful: I couldn't respond to him, and he just used me and took what he wanted, without caring about me. I was merely an unmoving object of his desire; a dead woman he could use. Then he went out for food, leaving me naked and tied to the bed until he came back, and then he made love to me again. And again. And all the time I lay still, unable to move, playing dead: I had become Heather, and I was just a dead girl being taken and used in whatever way took his fancy. It was wonderful, the deepest sex I had ever had. I wouldn't let him stop until he was exhausted and unable to give me more, and then I made him play with my dead body and fondle me ... I was insatiable. And all the while, I was tied up and unmoving, unseeing, and dead. Eventually I drifted off into a sort of sleep, and he slept on top of me; I don't know if I was really asleep or just playing dead to myself because being stretched out, immobile and exposed like that my whole body was tense with the excitement of being dead, being defenceless, being used. When we woke up the next morning I was still tied up, and although I was now aching, I still had him make love to me again. Poor boy, I don't think he knew what to do; I just wished there had been half a dozen others to satisfy me.

I ached for days afterwards, and when April and Tracy and I next lunched together, we were very quiet. We had all done more-or-less the same things the night after Heather had been killed (no; after *I* had killed Heather), and we still had her dying body very much on our mind. And the way she sought out death, not trying to avoid it. And although we didn't say it, I think we all wanted to be killed, too ... to feel death as we had seen Heather take death.

(IV) Games with girls

It was some months later that the three of us, with some other boys, found ourselves at a loose end on a sunny afternoon, and decided to wander down to the killing beach again. The boys were all very eager, of course, and the three of us felt the need to go again, but I'm not sure why. I was wearing my bikini top and jeans, Tracy and April had halter tops and shorts; Tracy, as usual, wasn't wearing anything underneath her top, and it was really a bit loose and thin. Tracy was not the most outrageous of girls, but she made up for having small breasts by showing them off at every opportunity. I wondered if she intended to really show them off today. I wondered if I would do the same; I thought about taking my top off even before we arrived at the beach, I thought about arriving and simply standing in front of the others and without notice or explanation, taking all my clothes off. I couldn't help it, and as we walked down the path to the beach, asked my boy if he would kill me if I were naked. That seemed to startle him, and -- misunderstanding my intent -- immediately and vehemently denied it. A thoroughly useless wimp, I thought. I asked him if he would kill another naked girl, and when he said he might, I played jealous and pouted ... thoroughly confusing him. Eventually April explained to him that if any of us decided to go naked or were made to undress by the Joker, we would expect them to do the killing -- otherwise they weren't worthy boy-friends. That quieted them!

I was all the while wondering if I would undress of my own accord, and see what happened; I thought I might go topless and see what the boys did, just to tempt fate. Later, I discovered that both Tracy and April had decided to do the same. As we descended the path to the beach, I felt my mouth dry and my body tense with the anticipation. As I walked, I felt a knife in my tummy, or a knife in my breast ... and felt my body getting excited in reaction. Nobody was near-by, so I stroked a breast, feeling my nipple harden under the soft material of the bikini.

However, the afternoon was already late by the time we arrived, and we had clearly missed an exciting day on the beach. It was strewn with dead bodies, and the shallow water on the shore was covered with floating girls. They had had play-offs of volley-ball, and as a result, the losing teams had all lost, very, very, truly lost, and had all been killed. I was sorry we had missed the spectacle, as it must have been fantastic fun to watch the games ... and then the consequences for the losing side. My mind raced, imagining what it would be like to play on the team and watch the score of the other side steadily rise and rise, knowing that this was a death sentence; my mind raced, and my stomach tightened. I savoured the thought of the slowly dawning inevitability of losing the game, and then being killed. Imagining at the end of the game standing around waiting to be killed had me very excited; what was it like to stand there, waiting? What was it like when one's turn came, and a man came up to one with a knife or gun in hand? What was it like to know that it was my turn next, to stand there awaiting death? I desperately wanted to lie down amongst the dead bodies and give myself sex. We wandered around the dead bodies, with the boys speechless. I don't think they knew what to do. The sight of dozens of dead girls, topless or naked, most with stab wounds, or with knives or arrows sticking out of them, left me quivering with excitement. I knew what I wanted to do -- desperately! I had never thought of joining one of the teams that played at the beach, but now I resolved to do so. I even wondered if I wanted to undress and get one of the boys to kill me now, amongst all the other naked dead girls ... but before I could think further Tracy piped up with a suggestion. We should take a couple of the dead girls home with us!

It was a wonderful idea. I hadn't thought of it before, but of course one of the options on the toe tags was to allow anyone to take the dead girl's body and do whatever they wanted with it. We immediately set about looking at all the dead girl's toe tags, first seeking out the girls we wanted. I found several nice ones before I found a particularly attractive dead girl with an "anybody, anything" toe-tag, and I announced I would take her. She was older than me, perhaps 30 or so, and beautiful: petite, very slender with black hair that came down to her waist, and her dark eyes and red lips were more than just inviting. She was tanned all over, and even on her back, she clearly had beautiful, firm and large breasts, and I looked with envy at her incredibly narrow waist. She had an arrow sticking out of the top of her tummy, just below her sternum, and a single small trickle of blood down her tummy and past her navel. She must have died quite quickly. I wondered what she had felt as she died. What was it like to have her body, and die with that arrow in your tummy? Her dead body aroused me, made me long for something I couldn't quite define, but I could feel deep inside my gut. Tracy found a blond with outrageously large breasts and what looked like a bullet hole just above a nipple. Since Tracy was not exactly well endowed, I wondered if there was something going on here. April, meanwhile, was coming close to having a row with her boy about which girl to choose; she wanted one who seemed to me to have a colouring and body altogether very similar to her own, with a knife neatly seated in her navel, whilst the boy wanted one who looked like a fifteen year old pneumatic Nordic warrior with an arrow sticking out of the middle of her forehead. Perfectly typical, I thought, that he'd want a plastic blow-up doll like that. April won.

The beach had stacks of stretchers, and with a great deal of effort, we managed to get our three girls' bodies onto stretchers and cart them to our awaiting cars. Manhandling (if that's the right word) the bodies and putting them onto the stretchers was a bit difficult at first: one forgets just how limp a dead body really is, and how legs and arms don't stay put where you leave them. Getting the bodies to the cars was difficult, but getting them into the cars was even harder; we couldn't get them into the back seat of April's 2-door and Tracy's sports car was out of the question, so we ended up piling all three into the copious boot [trunk?] of mine. Once all three were piled in, in what seemed a great mass of hair, legs, and arms all over, I began to feel the excitement of anticipation of playing with their bodies, or of becoming one of their bodies. The unmoving legs and arms lying in a mess, the open and unseeing eyes of the girls piled on top of each other was beautiful to see; I wanted to be one of them. Just looking at their unmoving hands lying on each others bodies was enough to leave me longing -- longing to be one of them, to feel my hand unmoving on another girl's body. I was already deeply aroused.

It was my car, so I suppose it was obvious that we went back to my flat. We left the three dead girls in the car until after dark -- I wasn't sure I wanted other people in the building to see us carrying dead girls into my flat. Meanwhile I opened a couple of bottles of wine and we sat in the living room. None of us bothered to change, somehow we knew that that would come later when we had the three dead girls with us. Conversation soon came around to what we would do with them, and then one of the boys asked how we three girls would like to be killed. Interestingly enough, we all three had clear ideas and could reply immediately. I wanted to be hit with an arrow, or stabbed with a knife, and probably in the breast. I still had the image of Heather's breast embracing the knife as I pushed it in, and the ease with which the knife went into her body. I asked the boys back how they would like to kill each of us, and of course they tried to evade the question, saying they hadn't thought about it. Rubbish, I thought.

Then I had a wonderful idea. We should play the game of the beach -- we girls could go topless and then the boys would be able to ask if we wanted to be killed, and we could accept or refuse; if we undressed completely, they could play at killing us any way they wanted, and we couldn't refuse. Of course this wasn't the beach, so they could only play at killing us, and we could lie dead as long as we wanted, or until someone else insisted that we become alive. And then we could be killed again. At last I could be killed, and I could begin to feel what it was like. We set about rearranging some of the furniture, and then to start making some food. It wasn't long before I decided to take the plunge, and I took off my top. It was not easy to do, and I felt something in me resisting as I pulled the bikini cups away from me ... but as soon as I felt my breasts free, it felt wonderful. I had overcome something, and I proudly brushed my hair back over my shoulders. Tracy and April's boys tried not to stare, but they did. Mine looked confused -- as if he was happy to see my body, but annoyed that the others were also looking at me. It made the atmosphere electric. But nobody did anything, we just carried on for a couple of minutes doing things in the kitchen, with me topless. I rather liked it; being exposed like that was exciting. I really, really felt my breasts. I liked that.

Then a few minutes later, April pulled her halter top over her head, revealing her wonderful breasts. I thought she had the most perfect body: she had smallish breasts, but they were perfectly formed and very high, with perfect, small nipples. Her whole torso looked as if it were sculpted in marble; she was without fat, and had perfectly even and unblemished, smooth, soft skin. Again, everybody was staring. I suppose we continued to go through the motions of preparing our food, but I don't think any of us were paying any attention to what we were doing. Our minds were on each other. Then Tracy came up to me, cooking knife in hand, and asked if I would like to be killed. I had not expected this! I looked at the three boys, who continued to look sheepish and lost. I asked her how she would kill me, and she motioned with the knife at my right breast. I nodded. She then place the point of the knife on my nipple, and made like she was pushing it in. I almost screamed. As she had come near to me with the knife I had broken out into a cold sweat, and when I felt it touch my skin, I wanted to scream. My whole body tensed, I was sure she would really push it into me. I wanted her to push it into me. I wanted to feel the cold blade push into my breast, to feel it go deep inside me, to be impaled on the knife. When she raised her elbow and played at pushing the knife in, I felt it prick into my skin; it drew no blood, but it did push the skin in. I have never felt anything so exquisite, so exciting. I cried out, as if in pain. It was the moment of penetration, it was a man coming inside me. It took a split second to realise that she had not pushed the knife into me, and I now had to play at dying. Disappointment flickered across my mind. I gasped, and with both hands held my breast. Tracy moved away. Now I had to put my acting skills to the test. I arched my back and pushed my head back, groaning. I rubbed my breast, then both breasts and my tummy, just for effect, and then began to stagger about the kitchen. I hadn't thought about how I would die. I fell against my boyfriend, and he caught me, his hands on my torso, then on a breast. His touch felt wonderful. I wished he'd caress my breast. I staggered over to the table, still holding myself, groaning, head down and hair covering me, and then started to roll onto a chair. I fell onto the chair, tummy up, so that it was supporting the small of my back, and I let my arms and shoulders and head fall over the side, hanging upside down, with my hair reaching the floor. I jerked and kicked a bit, carefully opening my legs as much as the chair would allow me, and then let out my best imitation of a death rattle, and lay still with mouth and eyes open. The others were silent. I felt dead. That was nice, I thought to myself.

My boyfriend came up to me, and kneeled by my head. He very gingerly touched my face, and then began to caress my body and arms. Very softly, he ran his fingers from my exposed lower tummy to my breasts, along my throat and to my lips. Bliss. I was at last dead, and was his to take. I wished that I was naked. I longed to feel that knife in my breast, to lie like this and feel the blood running from the knife over my skin. He touched me in complete silence, to match the complete silence of the others.

Wordlessly, April was taking her shorts and panties off, and walked into the living room, completely naked. Her body was so beautiful. Tracy followed. I watched them, upside down. All three boys stood together, watching from beside the kitchen table. Without any exchange between them Tracy mock-stabbed April in the tummy, just below the navel. April gasped, doubled up, groaned, and fell over on the floor, writhing. She rolled onto her back, holding herself, her back arching and her legs flailing about and kicking. She put her arms straight out beside her and stretched her whole body making all sorts of pained sounds, and then lay motionless, spread-eagled, her hair a great mass above her head. Looking at her upside down was starting to hurt my back, and I wanted to go over and look more carefully at her naked body. The three boys, on the other hand, seemed to be cowering in the kitchen, unable to move nearer to April. Tracy stood over April, looking down. She turned towards the boys, knife in hand, and looked at them with the most gleeful, triumphant look on her face. With a quick flick of each arm, Tracy undid and pulled off her halter top, exposing her girlish breasts to the boys. She rubbed herself with her free hand, looking intently at them. Then in a single motion, she pulled down her shorts and panties, kicked them aside, and stood there in her high heels, naked. Still staring at the boys, she proffered the knife in their direction. "Which one of you is man enough to kill me, now?" she asked.

There was silence. Then Tracy turned the knife towards herself, and made like she was stabbing herself, in the tummy. Like April, she gasped with pain, groaned, doubled up, fell on the floor, and writhed, jerking her torso and legs, and finally with a wonderful death-groan, lay still, also spread-eagled. Once again, there was what seemed an interminable silence.

Then my boyfriend came back towards me, saying to the others, "help me pick her up". The three of them picked me up by arms and legs, and carried me -- almost dropping me, they were so shocked at what was happening (or perhaps so excited) -- into the living room, putting me down next to Tracy and April. My arms were dropped, lying directly above my head. My boy then knelt beside me and pushed my hair off my breasts, then undid my jeans button and pulled down my zip, one hand on my tummy, pushing on me as if I weren't feeling anything. It was the most erotic thing he had ever done to me, and I felt supremely sexy lying there, exposed to the three boys, with him handling me, feeling his hands on my body. My body felt it was glowing; I hoped it looked beautiful and desirable. He began to pull down my jeans, exposing me. I was shocked. I thought about resisting for a second: was I ready to lie naked in front of Tracy and April's boyfriends? And then the feeling of being dead swept over me: I was dead, I couldn't resist. I had taken my top off, exposed my breasts to Tracy's knife, I was dead. My body relaxed, I felt myself going even more limp. If they wanted to undress me, I couldn't do anything about it, I just had to lie there naked and exposed to their gaze. If they wanted to make love to me, stick knives in me, there wasn't anything I could do about it. I was dead. One of the other two went to my feet, pulled off my heels, and pulled at the legs of my trousers. Eventually by pushing me over on my side each way, they managed to pull jeans and panties off together, leaving me lying completely naked. And dead. It was wonderful. I wanted to cry out with pleasure instead of lying there with slack mouth and eyes staring at the ceiling. I felt all three looking at me, drinking up my body with their eyes. I felt so exposed. I wondered if they were all three going to touch me, even make love to me.

For once the boys showed they had some sense of what was going on, if only minimal, and played the game differently. They conferred in whispers amongst themselves, and then went back to the kitchen, coming back with chips, wineglasses, cheese crackers, and other munchies. The sat on the couches, turned on the stereo, and began to have what would have seemed to any observer to be ordinary guy talk about their stupid cars and football and tennis and the rest of their usual chat. In the middle of the floor in front of them were the three of us, three unmoving, naked, exposed, dead girls. And if we were to play the game, we had to lie there dead until one of us -- or they -- gave up the game. I certainly wasn't going to be the first to 'blink', as it were ... and so lay there, enjoying being naked and dead in front of the three boys. The longer it lasted, the more sexy it became: I was slowly getting more and more aroused, as I felt them looking at me, and I felt myself more and more exposed and open and defenceless. And dead. My mind savoured, tasted the word, the feeling: I was helpless, still, and dead in front of them. Helpless. Dead.

Eventually even they became bored with their interminable re-analysis of recent football games and the detailed discussion of the subtleties of one shock absorber over another, or whatever completely idiotic topic of conversation they were fixated on. It was dark outside, and one of them cheerily suggested they go and get the other girls in. At long last. They all trooped out, leaving the three of us dead on the floor.

As soon as they left, I put my head up and asked the other two what we should do. April replied "I'm dead for the night, dear", and Tracy "if Robert doesn't make love to me soon, I really will die".

"Maybe that's what he wants" I suggested. She snorted: "he couldn't skewer me with a knife if his life depended on it" Well, that's about what I thought, too. "So do we just lie here while they bring the others up?" I looked over at April. She had moved one arm and was fondling herself, so I knew I wasn't going to get any useful ideas from her. So be it: we were just going to lie dead. I resumed position, and so did Tracy, next to me. Mind you, I was getting to like being dead and stretched out.

The three boys clumped and clattered as they brought the first girl in -- it was Tracy's bosomy blonde, held by feet and arms, face down with her head hanging between her arms, her blonde hair trailing on the ground. The boys couldn't have handled her more inelegantly if they tried. They manoeuvred her in to the living room, and then very carefully placed her over Tracy, with the huge breasts nuzzling Tracy's face. That was pushing their luck, I thought, wondering how Tracy would react. They immediately turned and left, and as soon as the door closed Tracy started to moan. She reached up to the breasts that were on her, and was fondling them, moving her hips and pelvis rhythmically against the dead girl's body. Nobody bothered to say anything. She was happy -- the boys had guessed correctly -- that was what she wanted.

The next body to be brought in was the girl I had chosen, and they very carefully laid her across me, so that her breasts and chest were uppermost, arched over my tummy, her head falling down my side, and her arms above her head. The arrow, still sticking out of her, protruded vertically, looking like a great spear going through the two of us. I lay still and dead whilst they arranged the body, and then as soon as they left, I instinctively moved my arms down from over my head, and touched her. She was cold; soft, sweet to the touch, inviting, and cold. Its very strange to touch a girl's skin and expect a reaction from it, and for there to be nothing. I laid a hand on her breast, and it was the most beautiful thing: like soft marble, it was cold, and perfect. I brushed her nipple, and it did not react. I fondled it more firmly, and still no reaction. I ran my fingers up and down the side of her stomach, and she did not shiver, get goose pimples, or anything. She was more perfect in death than anything I could imagine. I was touching her with both hands when I heard the boys banging again, and had to resume my 'dead' position. The final girl they laid on her back next to April, arranging her arms and legs in exactly the same positions, as if to emphasise just how much the dead girl looked like April.

My boyfriend disappeared into my bedroom, and returned with a video camera, and started to film us, first from a distance, then nearer and nearer. He walked all around us, filming us from very near, playing on our faces and various parts of our bodies, and those of the three dead girls. I wasn't so sure about this: there was a sense of being raped by being photographed like this ... but it was my camera, so I suppose it was all right. I would make sure I kept the tape. Once he had finished recording the pile of 6 bodies, the three boys started picking up the dead girls, and hauled them over to the table, arranging them on chairs, propped up with their heads and shoulders leaning back over the backs of the chairs. We three were then video'd once again, again from afar, and then very close, and all over. A little bit too much all over, I felt. I suppose the feeling of being raped was a bit exciting: I really didn't want to be photographed like that, but if I was going to play the game, I was dead and had to feel dead, so I had to lie there and allow him to record my naked body in every intimate detail. A dead girl couldn't resist. I was dead, I couldn’t resist. I lay still. I still wasn't completely sure I wanted to be naked in front of all these other people: my boyfriend was fine, and I suppose the other two girls was OK (just), but being naked in front of the crowd ... well, I was naked, and I had been for perhaps an hour or more by this time, so it was a bit late to claim modesty. And anyway, a dead girl couldn't resist. I had to get used to being unable to resist anything they wanted to do to me: I was dead.

The filming done, my boy announced that the game was suspended, and it was time for food so we were re-animated. They were hungry. I don't suppose they ever stop eating for more than half an hour, so I suppose they had done well. I rolled over onto my tummy, thinking about how I would get up, shaking my head and enjoying the sense of my hair on my back, all the way down to the small of my back. I looked over at Tracy. She was stretching and rubbing herself in the most sensuous way, quite oblivious to three boys standing over us, ogling us. Or maybe she was putting on another performance. I felt a bit better lying on my tummy, less exposed, less naked in front of the three boys. But I didn't know what I was going to do next. Tracy sat up, stretching. April was still on her back, but stretching and arching her back, pushing her legs wide open, bending her knees. What a tart! That wasn't even subtle!

My boyfriend came down to me, kneeling beside me, and touched my back, running his finger down my spine and gently caressing a buttock. He may have sensed I was suddenly feeling overly naked. "Don't worry," he whispered quietly into my hair, "you're the prettiest of the three. You look nice naked." Half of me wanted to retort that if he thought anything else, I'd cut his balls off there and then, but I didn't say anything, just rolled onto by back and pulled him down to me, kissing him deeply. His hand went to my breast, and I felt much better; somehow it was OK to be naked in front of him, and the others didn't matter. And maybe we'd all be playing dead again in a minute. He moved back and I stood up, trying not to notice the other two boys looking at me. Come to think of it, even without heels I was quite a lot taller than Tracy's boy, and he was suddenly admiring me very appreciatively. My breasts were just about his eye level, and he was enjoying that. Well, maybe that was fine. Instinctively, I flicked my hair back over my shoulders. You can look at them, but you can't have them, I thought to myself. Silly me for thinking that!

I don't know why, but we three girls didn't make any move to get dressed. Perhaps we were competing, or perhaps we didn't want to completely break the spell of playing being killed and lying dead. Anyway, there were three other naked girls in the room. We set about laying the table and bringing the food out, almost ignoring our three dead guests. Sitting at the table was a bit of a squeeze -- we were nine, after all -- and sitting at the table, naked, was a strange, surreal experience: I kept rubbing against the bosomy blonde on my left, and I had her huge breasts in the corner of my eye all the time. Opposite me was the perfect, tanned body of 'my' girl. All dinner I watched her, trying to feel her, get inside her dead mind, feel what she would be feeling across the table, sitting there dead. I also wondered how the evening would end. April's boy kept fiddling with his knife, turning to the bosomy blonde's body on his right and caressing her breast with his knife. Clearly he was enjoying the women around him! I thought about being the blonde, trying to imagine the weight of those breasts and feeling the boy playing with the knife over my breast. It must have been nice ... 'though April would probably have preferred that she was getting the attention.

Soon, conversation became quite practical: who had died the most realistically, how could we die better? My boyfriend had the most wonderful idea -- we would all three be killed identically, filmed, and then we could all watch ourselves die. This was wonderful. We cleared up quickly, and prepared to die once again. A thought niggled at the back of my mind: what would I be feeling if I was really going to be killed in a minute? It felt sexy, trying to think about it. I was starting to feel comfortable naked, because clearly being naked was to do with being killed, and all I really wanted to do was be killed. Repeatedly.

First, we all sat in comfortable chairs or on the sofa, and were to be shot in the chest. One of the boys indicated on each of exactly where we were to consider that we had been shot -- just between the breasts -- and then whilst one filmed, another stood in front of us and 'shot' us with an old water-pistol. I started thinking that this would be a bit silly, but by the time I had a spot indicated for the bullet's entry, the gun pointing at me, and the camera on me, it suddenly felt very real. I was the first to be shot, and as he raised the gun to me, I felt a cold chill down my spine and a knot in my stomach: now I was going to die. I looked at the gun intently, trying to imagine how I would feel if it were real. What thoughts go through one's head when the gun is real? What would the bullet feel like? "Bang" he went. I jerked violently, throwing myself back against the back of the chair, arching my back, writhing, jerking, rubbing my breasts, and flinging my long hair about in as dramatic a way as I could. Finally I sank down in the chair until my shoulders were at the bottom of the chair, my arms lifeless and limp up over the arms of the chair, and slowly allowing my legs -- off the chair -- to spread wide open. Sitting, as it were, on my shoulder-blades like that made my back and tummy arch up in the most provocative manner, leaving me dead and exposed and arched. And all in front of the camera. By the time I had finished moving, I was completely aroused again, my thighs and tummy tingling with expectation and desire. Dying in front of the camera was something special -- it was much more public, more real, more invasive that when I had died on the chair in the kitchen. I didn't want this to stop: I wanted to stay dead like this.

The camera off, I reluctantly, slowly, stood up, and it was Tracy's turn. She was shot, and cried out, jerked very violently, and pushed herself onto the floor to writhe and die with the most contorted position. She had one arm underneath her, the other stretched behind her as she lay half on her side, but with her hips swiveled around and her legs -- it seemed -- in a knot, her head thrown back and her eyes wide and staring, her mouth open and her tongue hanging out. It was a performance of pure sex, and I don't know why the boys didn't rape her on the spot. I was breathless.

Then April's turn. She made the impact of the bullet less violent, but put on the most beautiful show of pain and astonishment, all the while rubbing and massaging her breasts in the most provocative way. She slid off the chair onto her knees on the floor, and then slowly fell face down onto the floor, opening her legs and arching her spine to push up her bottom in the most astonishing display of sex. Finally she stopped moving, with her face covered with hair, her arms outstretched and legs wide open, and her bottom almost arched into the air. It was outrageous, and the most unbelievable invitation.

The camera was connected to the television, and rewound, with all of us sitting on the floor. I realised that I was happily sitting cross-legged in front of the TV, quite unconscious that I was naked. I quickly moved to sit on my hip: I was getting outrageous. The film of me dying was unbelievable. I felt sick, watching myself be executed, and watching myself die. It looked so real: my face looked frightened in front of the gun, and then my wincing with pain made me believe I really had been shot. I don't think I put on quite as convincing an act as the other two, but it was good enough: I was shaking as I watched me die, and almost uncontrollably shaking when the camera played around my still, naked body, my limp, outstretched arms and motionless hands, and wide open legs. I had been aroused several times that day, but this was impossible. I had seen me be killed, had watched me die, and watched my dead, naked body. I had never imagined I was so beautiful, so desirable, so long and willowy. My open eyes and open legs and still, dead body screamed sex to me: I wanted to be a man and to rape my dead body. I stood up and muttered that I had to go to the bathroom, went into my bedroom, threw myself face down on the bed and made myself come quickly -- instantly, it seemed -- and so violently I had to bury my head in the pillow and scream. I lay there on the bed, still face down and with my legs wide open, my face in the pillow and another on top of me, panting. I couldn't believe how aroused I was, and what an orgasm I had just had. I hadn't heard anyone come into the room (had I been listening? had my brain been even functioning towards things like my sense of hearing?), and suddenly there was a very firm hand on the pillow on my head, and then a wonderfully cool hand pushed between my thighs and began fondling me. I didn't know at first if I should struggle against the suffocating pillow, or yield to whoever -- whatever -- was fondling me. I yielded. My second orgasm was different from the first: I wasn't in control, and I was pinned down, struggling to breathe. It took longer to arrive, but it seemed to come from deeper in my body. As my lungs struggled and strained for air, my straining, aching chest seemed to start the orgasm, which then set my innards on fire, slowly working its way down my body to the fingers that were fondling me. I started to try to scream again, as the pleasure of those fingers became the most intense pain, too. I remember starting to buck up and down in the bed, my legs flailing in the air, and then the orgasm finished, abruptly, crushing me, leaving me limp and stretched over the bed, unmoving. In the few seconds before I recovered any muscle control in my body, the hands on me disappeared, and when I pulled the pillow off my face, gasping for breath, the door was closing. I did not see my benefactor -- murderer?

My body was too abused, too drained, too exhausted to do more. I couldn't really believe what was happening to me, what I was doing, and what I was doing to my body. I was wandering around naked in front of 5 other people, getting publicly killed and then having some unknown person bring me to one of the most violent orgasms of my life. And maybe try to suffocate me in the process. I could hardly stand. I walked out to the living room again, wondering who had been in my bedroom, trying not to look unsteady (but noticing that my hair was swinging around rather a lot: I wasn't controlling my body's movements well). They had finished viewing the film, and everybody was standing, moving about. I couldn't tell who had been in my bedroom. Nobody took any particular notice of me.

The boys were eager to try a different scene: we were all three to stand up in a line, and be shot. There was much discussion as to where -- in the head, in the breast, in the tummy (high? low?)? I couldn't summons the energy to participate, I only wanted to lie down ... and die quietly.

Shot in the heart it was to be: in proper firing squad fashion. Lined up in a row and executed. Tracy and April were enthusiastic ... I was drained. I said that I didn't think I could do anything more. The others looked glum, but Tracy's boy looked perky. He had an idea -- but needed to drive home for something. I wouldn't take him 15 minutes, and I could rest in the meanwhile. He went off, and I flopped on the couch. Tracy and April came over to me, kneeling beside the couch, and then the two boys. I put my hand over April's shoulder, and she gently lifted my hair off my breasts, resting her head on one. I thought I would fall asleep. Then April turned and started to rub her lips and tongue over the side of my breast, ever so gently, then kissing it. I started -- April and I were good friends, and had talked about most of the most intimate things in our lives -- but we weren't friends like that! Tracy, taking her cue from April, laid her head on my tummy, and began to gently stroke my tummy and hips and the crease at the top of my thigh. Then the two boys started to caress my legs and feet, one at my thighs, one at my feet. I felt myself relaxing, sinking into a warm darkness of sleep. Having four people attending to one's exhausted, naked body is something I recommend.

My boy piped up "Petra, when you're dead, this is what we will do to you. Enjoy it now, 'cuz the next time, you'll be dead." The knot was back in my stomach, and I felt completely alert. They had been cooking up something whilst I was out of the room, and they were going to kill me. Whoever had tried to smother me really was trying to kill me. They all continued to caress me, but I was awake and screaming inside me. You are planning to kill me! Which one of you? How? And as soon as I asked the question, something in me relaxed. How? I was thinking about enjoying it. If they were going to kill me, I was going to enjoy it. They were going to kill me and I would feel it happening to me, enjoy the killing, enjoy the dying, and enjoy lying dead and being caressed like this.

"Kill me soon, this is wonderful. Don't stop!" And again, I felt myself relaxing, but sinking into a reverie of supine, exposed, motionless death. I don't know how long they continued, perhaps it was only 15 minutes, but it seemed to me to be hours. Wonderful, slow hours. There was knocking at the door and noise, and Tracy's boy was back. I didn't get up, but the two boys got up and one of them went and opened the door, and Tracy stood up, walking to the side of the room.

"Look what I've got!" he announced gleefully, brandishing a large pistol with a huge, phallic silencer attached. "Now we can have fun with you girls!" I went stiff, as did April next to me. He walked over to Tracy, who wasn't moving, and from about 4 or 5 feet away, pointed the gun at her chest and fired. April and I jumped, grabbing each other. There was a flash of fire from the barrel of the gun, and that spitting sound I recognised from a thousand movies, and Tracy jerked, a splash of blood between her breasts. She gasped, and staggered. Standing, she reached up to her breasts, holding them, with a look of pained astonishment in her face and crying in little gasps of pain. She fell to her knees, her head falling forward, and then she fell forward, rolling onto her back. April and I were holding onto each other, my fingers digging deep into her shoulders, and hers into me. Neither of us was breathing. Tracy kicked a few times, arching her back briefly in pain, and then her hands dropped to her sides and her eyes rolled up in their sockets.

"Robert!" I cried out in anguish, "how could you! You've killed her!" My mind was exploding with anger at him -- at killing Tracy like that. He had just killed her! I stopped short as he turned to us, and started walking towards us, gun pointing menacingly. He was grinning. April turned and hid her face in my hair, cowering against me. From the way he held the gun it was clear he was going to kill me first, but then he reached forward and grabbed a handful of April's hair, pulling her head back. She cried out in pain and fright. He wrenched her back off me, pulling her onto her knees. There was terror in her face. He pushed her head back so that she fell backwards onto the carpet, struggling to support herself on her elbows. The gun spat twice in succession, and April jerked twice as two bright red patches sprung up on her tummy, one just above her pubic hair, the other just to the side of her navel. She cried out, the cry turning into a low groan as her body arched and her legs stretched in a violent spasm. I was motionless, still lying on my back on the couch, feeling sweat covering my body. I had not expected this. I did not know what to do. April continued to groan and roll from side to side, clutching her tummy, alternating between arching her back and legs jerking. She was still flailing about, making weaker and weaker cries, when Robert looked back at me, pointing the gun at me again.

I drew in my breath, waiting for the bullet to hit me. This was not what I expected, I was not ready for this. His eyes ran up and down my body, looking at me lasciviously. He leaned forward with the gun outstretched towards my face, gently pushed the hair off my face and breasts with the barrel of the gun, the better for me to see him.

"Where do you want it?" he asked, quietly. I couldn't find voice in me to reply, I was frozen. He pointed the gun down at my pubis, and I stiffened, waiting for the impact. He waited, looking in my eyes, then down to my sex. I don't know why, I started to push open my legs, still waiting for the bullet. He moved the gun slowly up my body, and at each instant, I waited for the bullet to hit me. I have never felt such fear, such a tightness of my muscles. I looked at him, at the gun-barrel, at his finger on the trigger, looking for a sign of when I would be killed. Finally, the gun pointed at my forehead.

"Here?" he asked, almost matter-of-factly. No, I didn't want my face mutilated. I tried to talk, but my mouth wouldn't move, and I had no air in my lungs. All I could do was with my left hand, cup my left breast, pushing it up towards him. I was offering him my breast as his target. I felt my legs pushing themselves further apart as I waited for the bullet in my breast. I managed to breathe, but I couldn't get much air in my lungs. I could hear my pulse banging in my ears, and could feel perspiration running down my face and neck, and could see beads of perspiration on my chest. I looked away from the gun-barrel down my chest and tummy, down to my legs and feet at the end of the couch. I was taking a last look at my body, enjoying its perfect skin for the last time, waiting to feel the bullet tear me apart. I was still pushing my breast up to him, and my eyes returned to the gun. I felt my lips move, but I couldn't say anything: I was paralysed with a fear that I had never felt before. I was waiting to die. Waiting to be killed. I had never felt such fear before.

"So, here?" he asked, pointing the gun at my breast. Although I was pushing the breast up at him, I was trying to sink deeper into the couch, pushing my shoulders into it, as if to get away from the gun. I couldn't answer, so I just looked at him and moved my head fractionally, blinking. I looked back at his trigger finger. It was whitening, the trigger moving. I wanted to scream, to arch my back, to run ... but I couldn't do anything, just feel my breast, waiting for the pain of the bullet. So this was death.

There was a huge white flash, and the most sickening noise as I felt something hitting my breast. I cried out. He had fired! He had killed me! So now I was going to die. My eyes focused down on my breast, and I saw blood all over it. I arched my back up, waiting for pain ... or I don't know what. I felt fear and anger tearing my body: I was killed, now I was going to die. My mind kept repeating it to me: you're dying. He had fired the bullet into me, and now I was dying. I pushed myself up from the couch, wanting to run, not knowing what to do. I looked down at my breast again, at the blood on it ... so little blood. I had expected more. My hand went up to my breast, and I could feel my hand touch me, feel the skin of my hand. No pain. Just my breast and my hand. No sense of a bullet inside me. I looked down again at my breast, at the blood. It was not flowing. I could see no bullet wound, could feel no pain of a bullet in me. I could hear my breath coming out in agonised gasps. I wanted to stand and run, but my legs wouldn't obey me -- I was dying. I knew that if I tried to run, I would fall on the floor, and die on the floor. But there was no pain.

My mind was completely confused. I had been shot, I was dying. I had been killed. I was about to fall on the floor in pain, helpless, and die. But I was sitting on the edge of the couch, feeling no pain. I looked again at my breast. Blood, yes, but it wasn't flowing. No wound, no pain. I felt nothing. I looked up and around me. April and Tracy were lying dead on the floor, but I wasn't. Robert was looking at me grinning. I looked at the other two, and they were grinning idiotically, too, one with video camera in hand. I looked down once again at my breast, still firmly held in my left hand. I felt it with my right hand -- it felt fine. Normal. No bullet hole. I was not dying, and I was feeling no pain.

I wasn't dying. They had fired a blank at me! I looked at Robert, gun still in hand: "you bastard! you've not killed me!" I didn't know what I was saying: had I wanted to die? Now that I realised I was not dying, it flashed thought my head that I wanted to die. I had watched Tracy and April be killed, and expected to die, too. I wanted to die, and they hadn't killed me!

He was still grinning idiotically, and raised his gun towards April, firing into her still body again, once, twice, between her breasts, her breasts jiggling with the impact of the bullets. Blood spurted from her chest. What a bastard, I thought: she's dead! "Ouch!" came from her dead body. I stared, not comprehending. He walked back a couple of steps, and turned and fired a couple of bullets at Tracy. Her tummy jerked with the impact of two more bullets. And she too went "Owww!" as blood spurted over her tummy. And both Tracy and April looked up, grinning hugely.

I looked about, not understanding, my brain slowly grasping what I was seeing. It seemed to take me an age and a half to understand what was going on, and my face must have been a scream to watch as the light slowly dawned: they had all played a huge game on me, and I was the evening's fool. They had set this up behind my back: Robert had gone off to get a theatrical gun, and then had 'killed' Tracy and April who had then died to make me believe what was happening was true. I looked down once again at my beautiful, living breast, seeing the fast drying fake blood all over it at last. It looked very realistic ... and it looked beautiful all over my the curve of breast and running down to the top of my tummy ... but it wasn't my blood.

Like a spring I launched myself up at Robert, beating his chest with my fists. "you bastard!" I shouted, laughing and crying at the same time. My impact pushed him off his feet, and we ended up a pile on the floor, me still beating him on the chest, and a great confusion of hair and arms. Seconds later I was joined by the other two girls, and we were soon a great mass of naked girls and a pulverized Robert. He didn't complain. Eventually we ran out of breath or energy, and I rolled out of the melee, lying spread out on the floor, trying to catch my breath. I didn't know really what I felt -- relieved or sad to be alive -- or was I just feeling completely wanton. Somehow being naked around these boys was making me more and more outrageous, or at least careless about my naked body. The three of us, still covered with the quick-drying fake blood were soon cavorting about the place, posing dead for the video. The boys certainly enjoyed it too, encouraging us as we draped ourselves over the tables, chairs, each other, stretched out dead. Piling ourselves onto each other was particularly sexy, and feeling the other two girls bodies over or under mine, touching me as we were filmed dying and dead was very exciting and erotic, but erotic in a strangely different way. I did like the idea of being killed, of lying dead and being open and feeling that they could use me in whatever way they wanted to, and being three dead girls together, open and exposed to the boys was an added thrill.

I demanded to see the video of Robert's fake killing of me. Again the TV and camera connected, and again we sat around the TV, me snuggled up into my boyfriend's lap, with him reaching over my head to caress me, his hands on my breasts feeling so intimate. It was very comforting, as I lay there in the nude. We saw the last bit of April's execution, with her dying with her spread legs thrusting her bottom into the air, and I already wanted to turn the TV off and take my boy to the bedroom. Then came my scene. One of them had started the camera filming -- I hadn't noticed -- just as Tracy died, rolling onto her back and straining her body, and then a close up of her face as it went from agony to relaxed and still, with her eyes open and eyeballs rolled up. The sight was outrageously erotic. Then the camera panned to the terrorised two of us, cowering on the couch, and showed Robert pulling April away from my naked body, then pulling her onto her knees and pushing her back onto the floor, and then firing into her tummy. Looking at her on the TV, I couldn't help look across at her real body and admire what a wonderful body she had, with those small but perfect breasts, and the perfect, sculpted torso. I thought how nice it would be to kill her and play with her dead body. Or perhaps be killed by her, and have her rub those breasts over my dead body ... my mind was starting to wander, when I was brought back with a shock: my face staring out of the TV at me. And it was the face of pure fear and horror.

The camera kept my face in view as April arched and writhed, and then panned over to my whole body as Robert stood over me, menacing. I watched myself transfixed as I felt the fear I had felt as he motioned up and down my body with the gun, my legs opening (did I really do that!?), pointing the gun at my head, and then me gesturing and pushing up my breast to him. I didn't realise I was that sexy: this was the most desirable scene I had ever seen. I wanted that woman on the TV, and I wanted to be that woman and to be killed. I wasn't watching me, I was watching another woman, and I wanted to be her, to be inside that beautiful long body and offer my breast to the gun the way she did. I couldn't imagine that the girl on the TV was me, and I desperately wanted to be her. I saw the woman on the TV looking at herself in an almost lascivious, lusting way, and I wanted to go and caress the screen, it was so sexy. My legs and tummy were already on fire, and I could feel my sex hot and painful. When the gun fired and I jerked and cried out, and the blood spurted on my breast, I was beside myself. I didn't know if it was me that was being killed, or I was being killed in my imagination. They stopped the video and went back and froze it at the moment of the gun being fired, with me arching and my eyes open in horror and my mouth open, crying in pain. It was the most erotic sight I had ever seen; it made me think of Heather as I pushed the knife into her breast. Everybody was looking at me, and I couldn't take my eyes off the picture of me, dying. If they found it sexy, think what was going on inside my body, and inside my mind.

Enough was enough. I could stand it no longer, and I think the boys could stand it no longer. I turned my face up to my boy, and said quietly but clearly enough that now he was to take me back to the bedroom and make love to me, or I would rape him there and then. My body would stand no more excitement without some release.

April had a better idea. Another game. Blind man's bluff, she called it: blindfold the boys, and have them find our dead bodies and make love to us. Tracy insisted, so I agreed; whatever that was the line of least resistance to getting a man inside me.

But the game was more dangerous than it might seem, in a sense. We blindfolded the three boys and banished them into the kitchen for five minutes, whilst we arranged the three dead girls (arms outstretched, legs apart) about the room, and then ourselves so that the three of us lay naked 'dead' amongst the dead girls, the six bodies lying in the same spread-eagled positions. With a shout from April the blindfolded boys were then allowed out of the kitchen, and had to stumble about the place until they found a body, and then could play with us and the dead girls as they wanted. I made it clear: we were to be considered really dead bodies like the other three, the boys could do whatever they wanted to us. Anything they would want to do to a dead body. Anything. Of course we stupidly expected them to work out which was their respective girlfriend and play with her 'dead' body. Stupid girls: they did not.

I lay there, dead once again, feeling my body tight and tense with expectation. I tried to relax, to allow my mind to slip into feeling dead, feeling powerless and immobile and utterly without control over my body and what was to happen to it. To lie motionless and limp was becoming a repose, a relaxation: I was just looking forward to having my boy on top of me, taking me, using me ... and to let him do whatever he wanted with my body. I knew that all he had to do was touch me, and I would climax. Of course the boys weren't allowed to actually kill us (that was for the beach only), but frankly, if he had done it, I would not have moved a muscle to stop him. I just wanted to lie there dead, and submit completely.

The three boys came in, down on all fours, groping around the furniture until they began to find our bodies. My boyfriend seemed more interested in the blonde with huge breasts -- I made a mental note to blind him and castrate him before getting rid of him -- and didn't seem to understand that his duty was to seek me out and pleasure me. As soon as he found her body he was all over her, kissing her open mouth and fondling her breasts, and then moved on top of her to make love to her dead body, pushing her legs further apart and grunting as he pushed himself into her. I was tempted to get up and kick his face in, except I was barefoot. Tracy's boy was able to tell very quickly that April's body was not Tracy -- remember that Tracy was a little flat-chested, so his initial exploration was clear enough, and he moved on to find Tracy and settle down to lick her all over before making love to her. What a good boy. But April's boy went from dead girl to dead girl, and when he found me was soon touching me all over. He must have known perfectly well that I was not April, but that didn't stop him for a second: he kissed my dead mouth, fondled my dead breasts and sucked and caressed at length a nipple, and then pushed my 'dead' legs open and was inside me in a trice, profiting from what we had allowed them to do. I lay quietly, 'dead', not knowing if I wanted to laugh or push him off me in outrage ... but he wasn't bad, all things considered, so I played along. I had a man inside me, and what my body needed was a man inside me. My orgasm was quick, and complete: my sex felt like a tightly wound spring, and its release was violent, and all the more so for my efforts not to move or react to the boy on top of me. In a matter of seconds, it seemed, I was feeling my body relaxing and calm, and able to enjoy his continuing efforts. At least he knew what to do with a woman. There was something very pleasant and exciting about allowing oneself to be utterly defenceless and exposed, open to being taken by any man, by just lying there and having any one of them do what they wanted to me. I quickly drifted back into feeling dead, feeling that I was helpless and he -- they -- could do what they wanted with my body.

April was soon annoyed at the neglect, and after what must have been a frustrating ten minutes lying still and exposed while the three boys played with other dead bodies, she called out "all change!" After a few moments, they all did. Mine simply moved to the body of the girl next to him -- this was the dark-haired girl I had chosen -- and proceeded to fondle, kiss, and eventually make love to her dead body. He really wasn't understanding the point of the exercise. Or maybe he preferred to make love to really dead girls. In any case, I was going to dismember his body with a chainsaw in public before I gave him the push, that was for sure. He didn't know it, but he was dead meat. April's boy could tell where April was from her voice, so came out of me -- which was a bit of a pity, really, as I was now enjoying a long, soft orgasm, made more pleasurable by having to enjoy it restrained by my absolute, immobile, silence. But he didn't go before giving my breasts a long fondle, and kissing my 'dead' mouth deeply. That was cheeky ... but I liked it. We had allowed them to do what they wanted with our bodies, and he was taking advantage of what we had allowed him to do. Stretched out as I was, and so exposed, I decided not to mind -- I was dead, and they could do what they liked with my body. He dutifully moved off to find April's body.

Tracy's boy was touching up the dead girl next to Tracy, but obviously preferred warm dead flesh to cold dead flesh. Next he found my legs, and started to caress them, slowly moving up my legs to thighs, lower tummy, and finally breasts. This was nice: he didn’t know which of April or myself he had found, and was just going to make love to whichever he found first. He caressed my face and licked inside my ears --- I was already ready to scream -- and then kissed my dead mouth and licked my dead lips. I just wished I really were dead: this was so pleasant. Then he started to work on my breasts, licking them all over, gently fondling my nipples with his lips. He ran his fingers very, very lightly over my tummy and hips, bringing me out in goose pimples. Tracy had taught him how to behave, that was for sure. To say I was aroused wouldn't capture what was going on inside me. I think I was already starting to come near to orgasm before he started to fondle me, and having his fingers caress me and having to lie still made my sex -- my whole body -- start to quiver. I was about to give up playing dead and pull him on top of me when he rolled in between my legs and very gently start to push himself inside me. It seems to have taken him an hour to push himself fully inside me. I started to climax immediately, and it took all my concentration not to move or groan or cry out. I was covered with sweat -- playing dead couldn't stop that -- and having an orgasm that went from my curling toes and aching legs to my heaving chest. I don't know what he was doing -- I had given up paying attention -- I just wanted to be dead so I didn't have to work so hard to stop moving, to stop me from arching my back and lifting my legs and pelvis to make him come even further into me. The tension of the orgasm was overwhelming, and I was stretching my arms and legs further and further in an effort not to move. All I wanted was for me to be dead and for this to go on forever. I think I started to black out or faint, as I couldn't breathe as I forced myself not to react or show the orgasm, and the overwhelming heat coming from inside me made the world go dark as my climax seemed to hold my very internal organs, every muscle in my body tightening, my mind going dark ... because the next think I knew, he was lying still on top of me, probably panting for all I knew (I certainly was), moving his chest gently over my completely wet breasts. I felt I had died for a couple of seconds. I felt that moment of utter weakness and helplessness after an orgasm. Tracy should look after this one, I thought. He started to kiss my dead mouth again, and I kissed back. This startled him, or maybe brought him back to reality, and after a few seconds he withdrew, and moved off me. I continued not to move, savouring the warmth inside me and the wonderful feeling of being dead, and at last feeling satisfied. The tension had evaporated, leaving me without strength

I was too tired to do anything else; too drained to get up. My eyes focused on the room around me again, and I could see that the boys were moving. I was dead and was going to remain that way, and that was that. I could do nothing else that evening. Anyway, the other two girls and their boys were clearly only just beginning their evening, as they were crawling all over each other. Mine, not knowing how immanent his gruesome public death was, sidled up to me to be cute and affectionate. I cuddled back, letting him play with my hair and stroke me, whilst I considered if I could borrow my father's chainsaw.

I couldn't stay nude any more. I don't know why, but I couldn't keep being naked in front of everyone. I got my boy to go and get my dressing gown, and managed to crawl to my feet and put it on. Tracy's boy was admiring my naked body again, and I thought that I might borrow him back sometime soon. But not tonight: Tracy had other plans.

With dressing gown on, I bade them all goodnight at the door, and sent each of the three boys off with a deep and long kiss, albeit a special one for my own boy. And I was rewarded with a more or less surreptitious fondle of my breasts by each. They were starting to take liberties! I was long past anything like decent behaviour. I closed the door, focused on one final effort for the night. I went back to the living room, and pulled at the legs of the dead girl I had chosen, pulling her off the carpet and dragging her along the floor towards the bedroom, her arms and dark hair trailing above her head. I pulled her onto the bed, and with a great deal of heaving and pushing (I should have asked the boys to do this, really), arranged her body. I turned out the lights, and pulled the sheet over us both, snuggling up to her beautiful, cold body, my arm over her dead breasts. I kissed her dead lips, and rested my face on her dead cheek. In the morning, I would enjoy her dead body to the full. But for now, we were just two dead bodies together, asleep at last.

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(V) April's end

we go to beach just alone or as the three of us, we go topless more -- esp. Tracy & April, trying to pull more interesting men. I want some body 10 or 30 years older than me, don't care if married. Tracy thinks its scandalous, April thinks its cool. We take to doing the stretch along the water-front. one day, standing there, April topless, Joker comes along and suggests that for someone forever topless, she ought to say yes sometime. or go naked, later he comes back, and orders her to take her bikini bottom off, she goes into water until she has courage to come out. She rejoins group, saying she’s ready to be killed.

One of the guys take a sword from the joker, and stabs her from behind, she had pretended not to notice that he was behind her, the sword goes through her back and out just under ribs.

As she dies in shallow water, April asks me to join her, to keep her company. I don't understand until I read her toe-tag, which gives her body to me.

Tracy and I take her body home that night, and I think we had just better draw a curtain over events that evening and night, and pass on in silence.

(VI) Tracy tells the story of a party.

(V) all good things ...

I get killed.

I'm at the beach alone. I'm not even topless and get picked up by an exquisite man. He asks me if I ever go topless. I say no, not much. He asks me to take my top off.

I say lets see. So he hangs around, we lie together, he caresses me and makes me feel wonderful. he likes my body, and makes me feel good. We neck: he kisses like a god. I take my top off. I make him caress me and he does things to my skin and body I can’t believe. May I kill you, he asks. Not now. We go swimming.

I love the feeling of the water on my naked body, the gentle caress of the water on the whole body. I also love what being in water does to boobs: they float, so every woman in the water has perfect, high boobs. and mine look terrific. I show them off to him, insist he caress them no end. His hands on my breasts arouse me more and more; he caresses me with his strong arms, holding me gently, but firmly. Whilst swimming I take of my bikini bottom. I show it to him, letting it float off, saying "Now I am yours. Yours in a way that I will never be anyone else's. Now you can do whatever you want with me. I'm yours." Its sort of the ultimate, deepest act of submission: asking him to kill me. He asks how, I ask him to come inside me, and then stab me thought the heart. He wriggles a little to make himself free, and then I float over to him, and kiss him as I've never kissed a man before. More deeply, more sweetly. I wrap my legs around him, and he slowly finds me and so slowly, so slowly pushes himself into me that I feel him becoming part of me. I cannot believe the softness and sweetness of my orgasm, this isn't the violent orgasm I had expected upon submitting to being killed, this is sweet and gently enveloping, like the water around me, like his arms around me. It doesn't stop. The climax continues, pulling at the muscles of my legs and stomach. I feel him inside me with an unbelievable intensity as he gently pushes himself deeper and deeper into me. I feel him reach behind him and pull the knife out of the sheath behind him, and I move my breasts away from him, arcing my back as I keep kissing him, and keep him gently moving inside me. I feel a gentle pinch on my breast, just a millimeter away from my nipple. I move my head away from him to watch. He asks "do you really want to die" "yes, oh god yes" "now, like this?" "yes, now, with you inside me, and with that knife" And with that I began to straighten my back, pushing my breast to the knife. I felt dizzy -- I am still coming, and my whole body is absorbed by my orgasm. I feel my legs open as they have never been before, with him pushing into me; at the same time my body yearns for that knife to come inside me, to make me climax more. My stomach was tense with excitement, and I was shaking a little, but I wanted nothing so much as I wanted him inside me, and that knife inside me; all I wanted was for him to kill me now. I am beside myself with fear: he is about to kill me. I have a moment of utter, complete, terror ... and if I could have screamed, I would have.

He simply whispered "die" and began to push the knife in. The point was very sharp. and it hurt. It pushed into my skin, indenting it, for just a second, and then it cut into me. That hurt, and I heard a sharp intake of breath -- from me. My body tensed, fear gripping me. This was going to kill me. I was watching myself be killed. And then it started to penetrate further and further into my breast. It hurt. Terribly. It was wonderful. He was killing me. He's killing me! My mind screamed as I watched the blade push into me, as I felt the point inside my breast, already deep in my body. I felt the point pushing through me, deeper, penetrating me, and it was agony. But apart from tiny little panting cries coming from me, there seemed an infinite silence around me: I could feel the cool water lapping my shoulders, and his strong arm behind me, and above all, I could feel him, strong, inside me. Warm, satisfying, filling me. But almost everything was blacked out by the pain of the metal pushing its way deeper and deeper inside me. I'm sure I could feel it cutting through me as he pushed it, so slowly, deeper and deeper into me. My body gave a violent shudder, and I couldn't breathe.

(VIII) sic transit gloria Petra

starts out with my body lying on beach, water lapping at it. describe what I'm conscious of. exposed, now lonely, feeling knife

toe-tag says my killer may have my body

taken in wheel-barrow to his house, he has another girl

she cleans me, they lay me out, -- table, bed scene, toss me in swimming pool.

stretched across table as centre piece for dinner party

eventually he kills her too, lays us out by swimming pool and friend arrive .... end.

© Petra Bee 1998