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.

Eric stood in the middle of his office, feeling the intense, sparkling eyes of the woman he loved gaze warmly into his. They had just released each other from a long, tight, passionate embrace. They stood there regarding each other from no distance at all. A loving silence hung in the air between them as Eric’s eyes drank in every detail of the woman who stood before him.

Guinevere 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 spoke up suddenly, jerking Eric’s consciousness from silent worship of her to the present necessity. Their eyes locked on each other as she reminded him, "It’s time, my love. Let’s go do this."

Eric started to blurt out his final objection. "Guin, there’s gotta be another--"

Guinevere cut him off, swiftly placing her finger to his lips to silence him. She slowly let her hand fall to her side again and she spoke, the earnestness in her deep, rich, resonant voice cutting into Eric’s soul.

"Eric. It’s settled. You promised me. Please love me enough to keep your promise."

She locked him in her gaze and gave him a significant little nod of her head. Without another word, she pivoted on her high heels and headed out the door of Eric’s office to stride down the corridor. Eric hastened after her to catch up to her and walk side by side with her. Halfway down the corridor, Guinevere turned and entered the door of viewing room number four of the Smythe and Sons’ Funeral Home. Eric was right beside her.

Once inside the viewing room with Guinevere, Eric quickly surveyed the scene. The open and empty casket was placed against one wall. As Guinevere had requested, it had a light blue lining--to color-coordinate with her shirt, she had said. On the opposite side of the room, about twenty people of all ages sat in chairs that were arranged in neat rows. Eric recognized Guinevere’s parents and two of her adult siblings. He surmised the other people were her aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, and nephews. A recording of the aria from Bach’s Suite Number Three in D, the "Air on a G-String," was playing softly in the background.

Guinevere drew herself up tall and proud in front of her assembled family, Eric close by her side. She spoke.

"Thank you all for coming. I love you all, and it means a lot to me to see you all here." She paused for a long moment and silence hung ominously in the room. She continued. "We all know that about a month ago, the doctors told me I had terminal leukemia. And we all know that a year ago, the state assembly legalized voluntary euthanasia for people with terminal diseases. Well, the doctors have done their part diagnosing me and now the lawyers have done their part, having me sign all the papers to authorize my own merciful death."

Another uncomfortable pause in Guinevere’s speech made everyone squirm inside themselves. Then she went on. "Now I know how lucky I am that the man I fell in love with is a funeral director. It makes things convenient. This is how this is going to work. Eric here has a handgun under his suit coat--don’t worry about the loud bang, it has a silencer on it. Anyway, in just a moment Eric will take out his gun and when I tell him I’m ready, he’s going to pump two bullets into my chest." A low chorus of gasps and moans filled the room, but Guinevere went on. "Eric will let me fall to the floor and die on my own. Then he’s going to lay me out in this casket behind me so you can all take your last look at me. One more thing. I asked Eric to not hide the bloodstains that will be on my shirt with a bouquet of flowers or anything. I want everyone who comes to see me laid out in my casket to see the bloodstains at my heart. I want them to know how I died and that I died the way I wanted to die. I don’t want to die a little bit at a time in a hospital bed with plastic tubes running in and out of me. I want the man I love to put me out quickly in front of the people I love . . . I want to die a beautiful death so I can be beautiful in death."

Then, Eric’s eyebrow arched as he heard Guinevere paraphrase her earlier words to him in his office as she spoke to her family. "People please. I love you all. Please love me enough to accept that I want it this way. Now--watching me get shot and fall may be a little too much for some of you. If you would like to leave now and go wait in the hall until I’m all pretty in my casket, that’s fine."

For a moment, nobody breathed and nobody moved. Then a woman got up from the front row of seats, holding a boy of about the age of three in her arms. Eric recognized the woman as Guinevere’s elder sister, Anne. He guessed that the little boy was one of Guinevere’s nephews. The woman spoke. "I don’t think it would be good for Joey to see all this. We’ll come back to say good-bye when you’re all laid out." Guinevere nodded her assent and without another word, the woman left the room--the little boy in her arms showing a look of hurt bewilderment on his face.

Guinevere took control of the proceedings once more. With a bit of a flourish, she turned to face Eric directly. He turned to look at her face to face. Only about two feet or so separated them. A calm half smile coming to her face, she fixed his eyes with her own and quietly said "Let’s do it."

Eric reached inside his suit jacket and deliberately brought forth his twenty-two caliber automatic pistol that had a silencer on the end of the barrel and a bullet already in the chamber. An audible "click" filled the room as Eric nudged the safety catch to "off." He leveled his weapon at the middle of Guinevere’s chest. The muzzle end was about six inches from her middle shirt button. Eric lightly put his finger to the trigger and froze. His gun hanging in the air and his pain-filled face became a question mark. Guinevere closed her eyes and lay back her head, raising her face to the ceiling. The loveliness of the beatific expression on her face made some of her family start to softly sob. She took several deep breaths, her chest rising and falling. Then she brought her head level again and opened her eyes. She looked deeply into Eric’s eyes. Her eyes were all serene expectation. His eyes were all tortured turmoil. She spoke, softly.

"I’m ready."

Eric pumped the trigger--twice.

Pfmmmpf! Pfmmmpf!

"Unh-Ahh!"

Guinevere’s cry of sudden pain had two distinct syllables as she felt a first and then a second bullet bore into her chest a fraction of a second apart.

For Eric, it all happened in agonizing slow motion. He saw a small, neat, round red stain blossom on the light blue cloth of Guinevere’s shirt, one inch directly below the middle button. Then he saw a second small, neat, round red stain appear on the light blue cloth half an inch above the middle button--in the last light blue cloth there was before the cloth parted to form the deep "vee" neckline that revealed the smooth incline of Guinevere’s upper chest. As Guinevere’s cry of pain assaulted his ears, Eric saw her eyes clench shut, he saw her head fly back--tossing her mane of hair as her face was raised toward heaven--he saw her whole body become rigid with tension as her arms bent at the elbow and her hands flew open, spreading her fingers wide. He saw her stand there in front of him in that posture, not moving, suspended.

Guinevere’s expectant brain sopped up every physical sensation of the swift death she had yearned for. In the same instant the muffled pops of the gun going off registered in her ears, she felt a cascade of sensations begin to overwhelm her body. The first bullet, the one with the lower trajectory of the two, arrived to pierce her skin a fraction of a second before the second bullet. Every time the first bullet created a new physical sensation as it drilled its way through Guinevere’s body, that sensation would be instantly overtaken and overwhelmed by a new sensation caused by the second bullet as it made its own way through her anatomy. Each sensation lasted for an infinitesimally brief moment, but for Guinevere’s mind, the totality of sensations created an eternity of suspended time.

Guinevere felt the first bullet touch and then punch through her skin and then she felt it bore through the softness of her flesh as it passed below the lower end of her sternum. But just as she felt the first bullet pass beneath her sternum to sink deeper within her, she felt her sternum shatter from the impact of the second bullet. She felt the first bullet shudder to a stop, deep within her lower chest, just below her heart--but then she felt shards of her shattered sternum go ripping and spinning through her heart. And then--and then, she felt the second bullet rupture the front wall of her heart. She felt the hot, heavy lead slug shove its way into the very center of her heart and she felt it come to rest there. She felt her own body go rigid, her own eyes slam shut, her own head toss itself forcefully back, her own forearms fly up, and her own hands splay themselves open. She felt herself stand there in suspension. She felt her own heart thump and thud as it desperately strove to keep on beating around the spent bullet embedded deep within it.

Eric and Guinevere’s family stared at her in speechless astonishment. They saw the grimace on her up-raised face relax into an expression of the sweetest closed-eyes contentment. They saw her move with glacial deliberation as she raised her right hand to her chest to press her palm to the two bullet holes that pierced her between her breasts. They saw her raise her left hand to press it cross-wise to the back of her right hand. They saw her head slowly roll forward and her chin droop to her chest. And they saw the tension fly from her body as she bent at her waist, as she buckled at her knees, as she spread her arms wide, and as, with a half-turn of her whole body, she sank to the floor.

Guinevere laid herself out flat on her back on the floor in the presence of her lover and her family. The restrained gracefulness of her supine posture matched the restrained elegance of her clothing. She lay with her chest arching upward toward the sky, two wet, red little circles decorating the front of her shirt, perfectly centered between her breasts. Her arms were spread wide to each side, palms up, fingers lightly curled. Her legs were out straight and neatly together, as was proper for a lady. Both legs were very slightly bent at the knee, though one knee was bent just a bit more than the other. And her face--her face glowed with the perfect serenity of welcome sleep.

Eric had been holding his pistol limply down by his side. Now, he returned it to the holster inside his jacket. Turning his back to Guinevere’s family, he knelt at her side. He was amazed to sense that she had not fully crossed over. Her peacefully dying mind sensed how close he was as he knelt beside her. Her eyes remaining gently closed, she murmured so softly that only Eric and the fairies could hear.

"Eric . . . Lay me in my casket . . . Quick. . . ."

Eric was swift to comply. He gently but forcefully pushed his left arm under her back and his right arm under her knees. Pausing a moment to gather himself, he stood straight up, cradling dying Guinevere in his arms. He took three steps straight ahead to bring her to the edge of the casket. Her wide-spread arms flopped lazily in the air with each step he took. Her head bobbed gently and her honey-brown mane of hair swished just a little. After pausing again at the very edge of the casket, he gave a low grunt as he lifted his beloved over the edge and laid her inside. He tried to be as graceful as possible, he tried to keep Guinevere as graceful as possible, but he could not avoid an awkward moment as he tried to get her torso, her legs, her arms, her head and her lovely hair all aligned inside her new home.

Having established Guinevere’s basic body position in the casket, Eric set to work to adjust the details. He oh-so-gently shifted her shoulders and head to rest comfortably on the pillow. He arrayed her long, light brown tresses into a halo about her head. He aligned her arms and hands naturally down along her sides and he ensured that her legs and feet were neatly parallel and together. He paused to note that her high heels were now horizontal and pointing out into thin air--where a few minutes before, they had been vertical and pointing into the floor as she had stood expectantly in front of him. Re-focusing his mind, he smoothed her skirt over her upper legs, leaving just enough soft ripples in the cloth to interest the admiring eye.

Guinevere was appreciatively aware of the attention Eric was lavishing on her. She felt her consciousness placidly hovering in the band of twilight between one side of Death and the other. She felt the soft comfort of the casket and pillow supporting her serenely resting body. She could sense the light of day through her closed eyelids. She felt the now cold lumps of lead resting deep and heavy in her chest. When she had first laid herself on her back on the floor, she had felt as if a mountain of stones was pushing down on her body. But now, lying in the casket, the heaviness that had been upon her was slowly turning into a divine lightness.

Eric paused in his work to gaze intently down into Guinevere’s angelic sleeping face. She sensed his gaze falling on her face and she parted her lips to speak to him in the quietest of murmurs.

"It’s so peaceful . . . I’m dying . . . I’m dying . . . I’m . . . dy-. . . ."

Eric watched Guinevere’s lips barely move and he watched her breasts and the two little red stains on her light blue shirt barely rise and fall as she spoke . . . then he saw her go perfectly still as the sound of her voice trailed off to nothingness. Then--he leaned over into the casket as far as he could and brought his face close to hers. He stared raptly into her serene features from no distance at all. And then . . . he kissed her forehead. He kissed each of her lightly closed eyes. He kissed her silently sensual lips.Gazing into her face again, he spoke softly, so that only she could hear.

"There now, my love. Now you’re beautiful."

Eric lovingly fixed his eyes on Guinevere as she breathed her final words.

"I’m . . . beautiful . . . thanks . . . I’m . . . Dead. . . ."

Guinevere’s chest rose and fell and rose for the last time and then she lay still. She saw the light become deliciously blinding through her closed eyelids, she felt herself become one with the Universe, and she felt the Universe slide out and away. . . .

Eric watched her go. Then he reached his hand into her casket for the last time. He delicately pulled out the crown on her wristwatch to forever stop its motion at that moment.

Eric turned to face Guinevere’s family. With a calm in his voice that he hadn’t thought he could manage, he quietly announced:

"Guinevere is dead."

After a moment’s pause he went on.

"Please . . . come up and say good-bye to her from up close."

People started to tentatively get up from their chairs only after a painfully long silence. One of Guinevere’s brothers went out into the hall to fetch Anne and little Joey. The three of them came back into the room together. Walking deliberately, carrying Joey in her arms, Anne moved to the side of the casket. They both looked inside. Eric could tell from the boy’s face that he was struggling desperately to comprehend what he was looking at. His mother cooed to him softly, trying to explain it all to him.

"See Guinevere dead? Isn’t she beautiful? Guinevere wanted to go to heaven early, so a nice man took a gun and shot two bullets into her heart. See the little red holes in Guinevere’s shirt where the bullets went into her heart? First, the two bullets made two little holes in Guinevere’s shirt. And then the bullets went inside Guinevere and made two little holes in her heart. Then a little bit of her blood came out and stained her shirt where the bullets had gone in."

Eric listened intently as Anne strove to explain things to little Joey. Eric noted to himself that, contrary to what Anne was telling Joey, the first bullet had probably entered Guinevere’s body just a little too low to actually pierce her heart. Nonetheless, he admired the almost sweet simplicity of Anne’s narrative. He decided to say nothing and he listened to Anne continue.

"When Guinevere felt the bullets come inside her heart, she knew it was time for her to die--so she closed her eyes, and she lay down on the floor, and she died. When she died, it was like she fell asleep forever. And now she’s dead. So we put her in this nice box so we could say good-bye to her. Guinevere is an angel now."

When Eric heard the last part, he felt himself losing control of his face. He bolted from the room and half stomped, half staggered down the hall to any destination that was not the room he had just left. He neither knew nor cared where.