DISCLAIMER:
To anyone who reads this:

I have written the following story to help myself and my friends, both men AND women, deal with our fantasies of erotic demise. This story is ONLY A FANTASY. I would rather die myself than have real harm done to a real human being in any attempt to make this fantasy a reality.

Guinevere Jones stood before the full-length mirror, checking herself out for the last time. There was no vanity in her as she scrutinized her reflection--only the cool detachment of a professional beauty calibrating each feature of the visual persona that was the basis of her livelihood. She mentally described her reflection to herself in the third person, as if she were a talent scout for a modeling agency, embellishing nothing--merely reporting what she saw in the mirror. She was tall, slender, lithe, and attractively muscled. She made herself seem even taller, the way she carried her shoulders proudly up and back and her head erect. Her austerely beautiful facial features added to her regal look. Her cheekbones were high and sharp, her jaw clean and firm, her nose long, narrow, and straight. Her lips were sensually full, but without exaggeration. And her eyes--her eyes were dark and deep, yet, when the light caught them, they seemed to radiate a shower of sparkles from where they were set in her fair-complexioned face. Her hair seemed to be any shade between medium brown and ash blonde depending on how each long lock lay beneath the light. She wore it long, simple, and straight, parted down the middle. It fell past her shoulders in a natural mane and went down her back outside the collar of her shirt.

Like her facial features, Guinevere's clothes were simple and sharp yet consummately elegant. She wore a plain but crisp looking shirt, light blue in color, with French cuffs fastened with silver cuff links. Her shirt had three buttons down the front, plus two more at the collar. The lower button was at her navel and the middle button was at her heart and she wore these fastened. The upper button and the ones at her collar she left undone, revealing the smooth flesh of her upper chest in a plunging "vee" neckline. Her wide, long, pointy shirt collar formed angular planes that complemented the angularities of her facial features. About her neck was a choker necklace of dark blue and dark red American Indian beadwork. She wore her shirt tucked into a slim, simple, dark blue miniskirt. The skirt did not have a belt, per se--rather it had a broad, snug-fitting waistband that laced up in front in the peasant style. The waistband of her skirt snugly gathered in her shirt, accentuating the contours of her ample but firm breasts. And her high heels--her dark blue high-heeled sandals gave her an added few inches that made her an imposing tower of beauty.

Guinevere felt pleasure at the touch of her favorite clothes on the contours of her body. The feel of her favorite clothes on her helped her to feel "right" about what she was about to do. She gazed into the reflection of her own eyes gazing back at her from the mirror and she felt reassured by the serenity she saw in her own eyes. She gave herself a little nod. "Well," she murmured to her reflection, "time for this world-class fashion model to die." She gave herself another little nod, broke eye contact with her reflection, turned, and took a deliberate few steps across the antechamber to the doorkeeper's desk.

The doorkeeper had been watching Guinevere, admiring her, as she had been giving herself her last look in the mirror. He already had his finger inside the front cover of the register when she came up to his desk and introduced herself.

"Hello. I'm Guinevere Jones, here for my one o'clock termination."

"Hello Ms. Jones. Yes, I have you right here. Thank you for being so punctual--it makes it easier for everyone when we are able to maintain an efficient flow." The doorkeeper spun the register around on his desktop, handing Guinevere a pen at the same moment. "Ms. Jones, please verify the reason written in the register for your desire to die today and sign your name on the line underneath."

Guinevere took in the words written in her block of the register in a single glance: "Fashion model wishes to die young and beautiful rather than suffer the insults of old age." "Yes, that's correct," she told the doorkeeper. She bent forward slightly and there was a momentary scratching sound as she signed her name in the appropriate place. She put down the pen and made eye contact with the doorkeeper. "Well, what's next?"

The doorkeeper took a step back, turned, and opened a set of fine, wood-paneled double doors. "Ms. Jones, just pass through these doors and walk down the corridor. You will see your Sandman waiting for you at far end. His name is Steve. Just walk right up to him and introduce yourself. Tell him how you would like it and he will do his best to accommodate you. Have a pleasant death."

"Thank you," replied Guinevere with genuine warmth in her voice and eyes. She directed her gaze down the corridor and passed through the double doors. She heard the doors being gently closed behind her but she kept her attention focused directly ahead. The floor, walls, and ceiling of the corridor were all done in the same brilliant white hard-surface finish. Regularly spaced fluorescent light fixtures set in the ceiling provided an evenly bright light down the length of the corridor. Guinevere found the uniformity of the white surfaces and the brightness of the lighting a bit disorienting, but not unpleasantly so. She surmised that the architect of the building had wanted to provide people who were walking toward the death they desired a feeling that was at once surreal and hopeful. She was struck by how long the corridor was--her Sandman was a tiny, distant figure standing next to what appeared to be a table, and she realized it would take a minute or more of brisk walking to reach him . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Sandman Steve watched his one o'clock client approach with growing interest. The brisk toc-toc, toc-toc of her high heels echoing down the corridor gave notice of a woman striding with a confident sense of purpose. As Guinevere came closer, he admired the proud, almost haughty way she carried herself and he allowed himself to be quite taken by the graceful way her lovely mane of hair swished with the vigor of her strides. She came closer still and he became engrossed by the austere beauty of her facial features, complimented by the austere elegance of her clothing.

Steve was in a state of rapt admiration when Guinevere came to a halt about four feet in front of him and established a close, searching eye contact with him. Then she assumed the posture in which she would accept her death. She placed her feet some distance apart to give herself a stable stance, just as someone trained in the martial arts would do. Steve watched intently as she positioned her body at a slight angle to him, her right shoulder turned slightly toward him and her left shoulder turned slightly away. She placed her right hand on her right hip in crisply jaunty way and she let her left arm hang naturally down along her left side. She canted her head to hold Steve in her gaze. Steve silently reminded himself that as a Sandman he was supposed to stay clinically detached from his clients, but he could not stop himself from being struck by the intelligent serenity that radiated from her eyes. Then Guinevere spoke, and Steve felt himself struggling to maintain his self-control as the deep, rich resonance of her voice filled the corridor.

"Hi, Steve. I'm Guinevere. I want to die. Shoot a bullet through my heart. Lay me out . . . dead."

The way Guinevere emphasized the word "dead" snapped Steve's brain back to the issue of the moment. Not saying a word, he turned his head to look down at the table next to him. Neatly arranged on the tabletop was an assortment of knives and daggers, a garrote, a poison-filled hypodermic syringe, and a small collection of handguns. After stroking his chin for a moment, Steve picked up the twenty-two caliber automatic pistol with the silencer attached. The gun in his hand, he wordlessly returned his gaze to Guinevere, his Sandman's practiced mind working. Given the way Guinevere was standing at a slight angle to him, he saw that the way to pierce her heart with a bullet was to aim just to the left of the center of her chest. As the obviously intelligent woman in front of him obviously wanted, such a shot would not have to shatter her sternum in order to reach her heart. Rather, the bullet could pass between two of her ribs and enter her chest at an angle so as to pass next to, and then behind, her sternum to enter her heart. The small twenty-two caliber bullet would not knock Guinevere sprawling, but rather would enable her to let herself sink to the floor gracefully as she felt herself dying. Finally, such a small bullet would make a small, neat hole with a small, neat bloodstain in Guinevere's shirt. Her shirt would still look crisp and snug, flattering her figure, even as she lay dead. The little red circle of the bloodstain on the light blue cloth of Guinevere's shirt would look like a single red rose petal as much as anything else.

His course of action decided, Steve assumed his shooting stance, his pistol cupped in his two hands and his arms braced out, full length. The muzzle of his weapon was about a foot from the center of Guinevere's chest. He peered down the sights and aligned them on the middle button of her shirt. Then, he shifted his point of aim one inch up and one inch left from her middle shirt button. Holding his weapon steady, he lifted his eyes from the sights to make one last eye contact with Guinevere. She met his gaze with her own. With serenity in her eyes, she gave Steve a barely perceptible nod of her head. He returned his focus to the sights of his weapon and reconfirmed his aim. He slowly, deliberately, squeezed back on the trigger.

Pfmpf!

"Unnnh!"

Guinevere's mind calmly registered the flash at the muzzle of her Sandman's pistol. She felt the point of the bullet pierce her skin just to the right of her breastbone. She felt the bullet drill into her heart and shudder to a stop deep in her chest. She felt her heart start to thump madly and erratically as it strove to beat around the lead slug embedded at its center. Though her heart was throbbing, her mind was serene. She mentally contrasted the heaviness in her chest with the growing sense of lightness in her head. She saw Steve's amazed eyes staring straight into hers. She focused her mind on forcing her last words out through her lips. She made ready to surrender her body to the twin forces of gravity and death that she could feel pulling her down to the floor.

Steve saw the instant blossoming of the small, wet red circle on the light blue cloth one inch up and left from Guinevere's middle shirt button. Bringing his pistol to hang down by his side, he raised his eyes to see the reaction in her body, in her face. To his astonishment, she had not changed her posture in the least. She still stood there, hand confidently on hip, as if she had not even twitched. He found her still-open eyes gazing into his with precisely the same wise calmness as before--except--he thought he could detect a sweetly sad tiredness in her eyes that was not there before.

She spoke--in a soft murmur that cut to Steve's soul.

"Nice shot . . . You got me . . . Thanks."

Steve stood and watched amazed as Guinevere gently let Death envelop her. She closed her eyes-not clenched shut, but only lightly closed. She laid back her head and her regal facial features were bathed by the light. She allowed her right hand, that she had jauntily placed on her hip, to straighten out and hang along her side. Then, she slowly rolled her head forward again, her chin drooping toward her chest. And then, slowly at first, but with gathering speed, her knees buckled beneath her, she bent at the waist, and she half sat back, half toppled over, to lay herself out. . . .

Guinevere laid herself out flat on her back on the floor. Her shoulders were level and foursquare. Her head lay straight, not tilted to either side at all--though her head was canted back just a little, pointing her well-formed chin toward the ceiling. Her glorious mane had fallen naturally into a halo around her serene-looking face. Her arms lay spread wide to each side, palms up, fingers lightly curled. Her back was arched, pushing her breasts up toward the sky. The cloth of her shirt was stretched taught between her upward thrusting breasts. A little wet red circle stained the light blue cloth next to her middle shirt button. Her legs were extended out, knees together, ankles together, as is proper for a lady. Both her legs bent upward just slightly at the knee, though one knee bent upwards a bit more than the other.

Guinevere's mind savored the last moments of her life. The tremendous heaviness she felt bearing down on her chest gradually gave way to a sensation of divine lightness. Her torn heart was burning with rapture as she felt herself sinking into the final ecstasy of her death. Her dying mind appreciated why the French call orgasm "the little death." Through her closed eyelids, the light became deliciously blinding, she could feel the light enveloping her. . . .

Steve had watched with rapt attention as Guinevere gracefully laid herself out to die. Now, to his astonished delight, he saw that Guinevere was not yet finished with her master performance of expiring beauty. Her chest heaved up and down with softly gasping breaths. With low, sweet moans, her final words punctuated each rise and fall of her chest.

"I'm dying . . . I'm dying . . . I'm dying . . . I'm . . . Dead. . . ."

A final rise of her chest, and . . .

Guinevere lay still.

Sandman Steve thought to himself one more time about professional standards of detachment with regard to clients and then he flung such thoughts from his mind. He set his pistol back on the table. He knelt at Guinevere's side. His eyes drank in every detail of her loveliness in repose. The points of her shirt collar were straight and even. The smooth curve of the flesh of her upper chest was revealed by the deep "vee" neckline of her half-open shirt. Her choker necklace nestled at the base of her throat. The crisp cloth of her still snugly tucked-in shirt accentuated the lovely mounds of her breasts that now curved upwards toward heaven. A small, round, red wetness decorated the front of her light blue shirt, almost perfectly centered between her breasts. Her face--her face was radiant with the perfect peacefulness of her final sleep.

Sandman Steve steadied himself with one hand and then he reached his other hand across Guinevere's chest to cup it on her far breast. Feeling the delightful firmness of her breast through the cloth of her shirt and brassiere, he brought his face close to hers. He gazed into her sweetly closed eyes from no distance at all, and then--he placed the gentlest of kisses upon her lips, her lips that were still warm from the life that had been in her.