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.

Greg Saunders looked to the far side of the ballroom dance floor and fixed his eyes on the beautiful woman with whom he was about to fight a duel to the death. He saw her eyes bore straight back into his. He saw her playfully twirl her rapier in her hand and he involuntarily squeezed harder on the grip of his own blade. He had made her acquaintance about a year ago. Now, he was about to share with her the intimacy of violent death given and violent death received on the point of a sword. His eyes and his mind registered every detail about the appearance of the woman he would have to kill in the next few minutes in order to save his own life.

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, the woman’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.

Greg’s consciousness was jerked back to the matter at hand by the announcer’s voice coming over the public address system.

"Ladies and gentleman--welcome to this afternoon’s session of the forty-third annual Trilateral Commission Convention. In keeping with our tradition, we are about to witness another of our annual ritual battles in the War Between the Sexes."

Greg thought to himself in quiet amazement about the implications of the announcer’s words. In the year 2005, a mystery-shrouded secret society, that claimed itself to be the real controlling power in the affairs of the world, still thought it necessary to honor an ancient feud with a modern symbolic duel to the death. Greg listened as the announcer continued.

"Both our combatants for today are well known to you. Greg Saunders and Guinevere Jones won Olympic gold medals in men’s and women’s fencing respectively last year in Athens. They have come here today to risk death, upholding the honor of their sexes on the point of a rapier." The announcer cleared his throat, seemed to search for the right words for a moment, and went on. "As a personal aside, allow me to say that I appreciate how our combatants have come to this event elegantly garbed to kill--or be killed."

Greg silently agreed with the announcer as he held Guinevere in his gaze. Her simple but elegant shirt, worn dramatically open at the top to reveal the smooth incline of her upper chest, did give her the romantic, dashing air of a seventeenth century lady pirate. The lacing on the waistband of her skirt added to the illusion. Certainly, thought Greg, Guinevere’s choice of footwear spoke confidence. Not every woman fencer would fight a duel to the death with high heels on her feet. But then, thought Greg as he recalled watching Guinevere compete in Athens the previous year, her personal fencing style was all up on her toes. She would be giving up very little of her competitive edge indeed for the sake of her fashion statement.

Guinevere Jones kept her eyes riveted on her opponent as the announcer made his intonations. She chuckled to herself when the announcer got to the part about "elegantly garbed." The man she was planning to kill wore skin-tight buff-colored riding breeches tucked into knee-high black leather riding boots. He was naked from the waist up. "No doubt he thinks he’s Errol Flynn" she smirked inwardly. "Although . . . those are nice abs and pecs. Well--if it is my fate to die with a rapier through my heart, I could do worse than to die from the thrust of a cute stud like that." Guinevere continued her inward musings as she listened to the announcer drone on. "Speaking about being ‘elegantly garbed’--yup, Coach Smith thinks I’m nuts to come to this match in high heels. Not to worry, though. My fighting style is all up on my toes. Anyway, it’s important for a woman to dress her best for the great events in her life--whether she lives or dies."

Guinevere’s attention to present business perked up when the announcer got to his last words before the match was joined.

"By tradition, our combatants will now advance to the center of the floor, shake hands, salute with their weapons, and set to. May the best human being win."

The thud-thud of Greg’s boots and the toc-toc, toc-toc of Guinevere’s high heels echoed off the hardwood floor as both champions strode forward. They kept their eyes firmly fixed on each other’s eyes as they quickly drew closer to each other. They met in the center of the floor and halted, a little more than a distance of two feet between them. Their gazes unflinchingly locked on each other, their right hands gripped on the hilts of their weapons, they each extended their left hands and clasped them firmly. The words each spoke to the other were grounded in tradition and were well-rehearsed.

Guinevere spoke first and Greg felt himself enraptured by the deep, rich resonance of her voice.

"Hail to thee, Greg. May the best human being win, and whether you live or die, may you bring honor to your sex."

Still keeping Guinevere’s hand firmly in his, Greg answered the salutation.

"Hail to thee, Guin. May the best human being win--and whether you live or die, may you bring honor to your sex."

Guinevere noted the firmness of character in Greg’s voice and pleasantly thought to herself that here was a man who was worth her time. She gave a barely perceptible nod of her head and the two combatants released their grip. They simultaneously took a step back, they simultaneously, and with great flourish, raised their rapiers to a vertical position, points upward, in salute, and they simultaneously lowered their rapiers to their sides again. And then--a loud metallic "CLACK" filled the hall as both rapiers swung upwards to strike each other at the midpoint of their blades.

"En garde!"

Thrust, parry, counter-thrust, slash, lunge, recover, lunge again . . . in a blur of flashing steel, Greg and Guinevere danced with each other and with Death. Parry, thrust, withdraw, lunge and thrust again, the audience lost itself in the hypnotic whirl of two striving bodies and two shimmering rapiers moving faster than they could comprehend. Lunge, thrust, and slash again, and Greg did not notice the gasp that went up from the audience when the bloody welt appeared along one of his ribs to pass around to his back, nor did he notice the narrow red furrow that suddenly ran the length of his forearm.

Thrust, parry, dodge, whirl, thrust and thrust once more and then again, and again, and again. Lunge, thrust, whirl, the audience went into a trance, the two fencers lost themselves in the maelstrom of sensory impressions that moved faster than their eyes could follow, thrust. . . .

"Unnhhaaaaaaaaaah!"

For Guinevere, time stood still.

For Greg, time stood still.

For the audience, time stood still.

Every open pair of eyes in the hall fixed themselves on Guinevere where she stood.

She stood there, as tall and straight as a redwood tree. Her shoulders were up and back, her chest was thrust out, her legs and her feet were tightly together with her knees and ankles rigidly locked . . . her head was laid back and her face was bathed in the glow of the ceiling lighting. Her face--her face was frozen in a harsh grimace, her eyes clenched shut. As the people in the audience struggled to re-gather their wits, they finally saw that the first several inches of Greg’s rapier were buried inside Guinevere’s abdomen.

Guinevere sensed the light coming through her closed eyelids. She became aware of how her body was holding itself rigidly upright. She felt how her body had suddenly become a single mass of tension. She was aware that the bones of her right hand seemed about to break from the tightness of her grip on the hilt of her rapier. Then Guinevere replayed the last few seconds of history in her pain-swamped mind. She had felt a needle point of steel break her skin in the perfect center of her tummy, one inch directly above her lower shirt button and two inches due north from her navel. The point of steel had been followed by shaft of steel that was so cold it set her viscera on fire. She now felt the point of steel embedded in one of her lower vertebrae. She now felt several inches of steel parting her innards, and she sensed her innards quietly gurgling around the steel shaft that pierced them.

Greg stood there, his hand still gripping his rapier whose point had disappeared into Guinevere’s tummy. He gaped at her, stunned incredulity on his face--incredulity at how his rapier had slid inside Guinevere before he realized it, incredulity at the small, neat, round, wet red stain that appeared on the light blue cloth of Guinevere’s shirt around his blade where it pierced her, incredulity at Guinevere’s power of self-control to hold herself standing erect with several inches of steel sunk within her.

Greg’s incredulity was about to grow. He watched amazed as the grimace on Guinevere’s upturned face softened into a serene, beatific glow. He watched as Guinevere moved her left hand with glacial deliberation to press it to her wound, notching the blade of Greg’s rapier between her thumb and her palm. He saw her bring her head back down to the level and he saw her eyes slowly open to fix him in her peaceful gaze. Then he saw a mischievous smirk play across her lips as she opened her mouth to speak.

"Nice thrust, Greg."

Guinevere continued in a soft voice that Greg could hear clearly but that the audience had to strain to catch. Greg was astonished at Guinevere’s ability to form coherent sentences in spite of her mortal pain.

"But Greg. You gave me a gut wound. It could take me an hour to die from this. Let’s hurry things along, hmmm? Pull it out. Then finish me. Run me through my heart. All the way--to the hilt."

Dully collecting his wits, Greg moved to obey. With a smooth, deliberate motion he withdrew his rapier from Guinevere’s tummy the same way it had gone in.

"Ooooooohh. . . ."

As she moaned, Guinevere once more closed her eyes, she once more raised her face toward heaven, and she let her left hand return to her side.

Cocking his elbow to deliver a deep thrust, Greg brought his rapier up high and level. He brought the point to the middle of Guinevere’s chest. With careful deliberation, he put the very point of his weapon to the cloth of her shirt, two inches up and two inches to his right from her middle shirt button. The cloth of Guinevere’s shirt was stretched taught between her breasts. Using the smallest amount of force of which he was capable, Greg pushed just enough to incise the cloth of Guinevere’s shirt and tickle her flesh just off-center of her chest, in the soft spot to the right of her sternum and between her ribs--the soft spot that would lead to her heart. Greg just pricked Guinevere with the point of his rapier at her fatal soft spot . . . and then he froze. The point of his rapier poised to sink into Guinevere’s waiting flesh became a question mark.

Guinevere answered the question. Her eyes closed, her face serene, she murmured-- "Yes."

Greg pushed. He pushed hard. He pushed hard and he pushed with smooth steadiness. Transmitted to his hand through the length of his blade, he felt his steel break Guinevere’s skin, he felt a certain squishiness as his blade sank between her ribs, he felt a throbbing in his blade as it sank through Guinevere’s beating heart. . . .

. . . Greg kept pushing. He saw inch after inch of his blade disappear into the light blue cloth of Guinevere’s shirt and he saw the neat little red stain that blossomed on the light blue cloth around the blade. Thinking clearly now, Greg imparted just enough angle to his blade so that it could pass to one side of Guinevere’s spine and emerge from her back.

Guinevere struggled to maintain her upright posture as her mind registered the cascade of sensations that washed over her. She felt a sharp prick on her skin just to the left of her sternum, she felt that sharp prick widen and deepen into a growing tear, she felt a sharp shock of steel pierce her throbbing heart and then she felt that steel sink through the depth of her heart--she felt the skin in the middle of her back blister outwards as the point of the rapier sought daylight once more.

The audience watched thunderstruck as these proceedings played out. As the length of the rapier sank into Guinevere’s chest, she arched her back, pushing her chest forward, as if her chest was eager to receive yet more of the blade. The people saw the back of her shirt momentarily assume the shape of a tent as the point of the rapier pushed outward against it, and then they saw the reddened point break through the cloth and keep going. . . .

. . . Inch after inch of the silver rapier blade disappeared into Guinevere’s chest and inch after inch of the reddened rapier blade emerged from her back. Inch after inch of blade passed through Guinevere’s desperately beating heart. With each desperate beat, she could feel her heart cutting itself a little more on the steel. The nerve endings of her torn heart muscles kissed the steel and sent shock waves of pain surging outwards. The shock waves of pain became sock waves of ecstasy that Guinevere could feel in the tips of her fingers, the tips of her toes, the ends of her hair. To the outside observer, she stood as still as a statue, a look of bliss on her upturned face, as she let the length of the blade sink through her heart. But inwardly, she could feel every atom of her body vibrating with delight as Death enveloped her. Yes, she knew it was true now--death is the best orgasm of all. The long low moan that the astonished spectators heard emerge from her lips was the purest moan of ecstasy she had ever uttered.

Greg felt his rapier hand come to a stop. The crosspiece on the hand guard of his weapon was pressing against the cloth of Guinevere’s shirt. He had no more blade to give her. He was suddenly perplexed at what to do next, but Guinevere came to his rescue. With her eyes remaining gently closed, she murmured so softly that only Greg and the angels could hear.

"Greg . . . You got me . . . Now I can die . . . Thanks."

The audience jumped as Guinevere suddenly released her grip on her rapier and it clattered loudly on the floor. With great deliberation, she spread her arms in the air as wide as they could go. And then, slowly at first but with increasing speed, her body tilted backwards and then toppled over backwards, her whole body as straight and rigid as if she was a tall tree felled by a woodsman. At high speed now, inch after inch of the bloody rapier blade disappeared into her back to reappear from between her breasts. Her back hit the floor with a plainly audible thud. Greg looked at the red blade of his rapier that was freely in the air once more and he looked down at Guinevere, laid out on the floor in front of him.

She had laid herself out flat on her back on the floor. Her arms were spread wide to each side. Her palms faced up at the ceiling, her fingers lightly curled. Her legs were gracefully together. They were both slightly bent at the knee, though one knee was bent upwards a little higher than the other. Her chest arced upwards toward the heavens, two small, wet, red circles on light blue decorating the front of her shirt. Greg felt himself transfixed by the peacefulness of her facial expression.

But. . . .

Guinevere was not yet still. Greg and the audience gaped at her in astonishment yet once more. Her chest pumped, her chest heaved, up and down in great slow waves of sweet agony. With each heave, a long low moan passed from between her lips.

Guinevere was beyond pain and she reveled in it. With every heave of her chest she felt herself falling deeper and deeper still into her death orgasm. Through her closed eyelids, the light became concentrated and deliciously blinding. She felt herself become one with the Universe and she felt the Universe slide out and away. . . .

She lay still.

Greg arrived at the chapel early for Guinevere’s memorial service. He felt good performing some act of homage for his fallen warrior foe. After all, she had given him the gift of two noble--and still painful--scars that he could carry proudly for the rest of his life.

Entering the chapel, he saw several small groups of people standing about, conversing softly amongst themselves. A recording of the "Canticles of Ecstasy" by Hildegard von Bingen was playing softly in the background. In front of the altar, he beheld Guinevere laid out in her final repose. She was wearing the same clothes in which she had bravely accepted her death. Greg was intrigued to note that she was not lying inside a casket. Rather, she had been laid out atop a bier of ornately carved marble. The better to display the complete length, breadth, and depth of her lovely prostrate form, he thought. Moving deliberately, he walked right up to the edge of Guinevere’s bier and canted his head downward to admire her still beauty.

She was flat on her back with her body laid out in a neat, straight line from the part in her hair to the tips of her high heels. Her long, smooth legs extended full length and lay tightly together. Her feet were tightly together as well. Her firm bosoms were now lovely mounds that pointed toward heaven. The flesh of the middle of her upper chest curved smoothly where the deep "vee" neckline of her not quite halfway opened shirt revealed it to view. The chapel attendants had taken the time to arrange her glorious long mane into a halo that lay about her face on the marble tabletop. And her face--her eyes were lightly closed and her sensual lips were just oh-so-slightly parted in a facial expression that radiated the most perfect peace and serenity in sleep. Her high, angular cheeks still had the glow of the life that had been in her.

Guinevere’s simple but elegant garments helped Death to seem a lovely thing indeed. Her spike heels were perfectly parallel. But now, her spike heels were horizontal and the tips of her heels pointed out into the air--instead of being vertical and pointing into the floor as they had done when she was alive. Her dark blue miniskirt lay smooth over her upper legs and lay evenly on either side of her thighs. Her light blue shirt still looked crisp and sharp, even though it had been rent by two rapier thrusts. The points of her shirt collar lay straight and even. The fabric of her shirt lay smooth and taut over her flesh, flattering the curves of her body. The dark blue and dark red beadwork of her choker necklace nestled at the base of her throat.

Greg noted with approval that the people who had laid Guinevere upon her bier had taken an idea from the tomb effigies of medieval knights. They had laid Guinevere’s rapier parallel to, on top of, and centered on, her legs. Her hands were neatly folded to clasp the hilt of her rapier where it rested on her tummy. The bloodstain of her abdominal wound was thus hidden from view. But the bloodstain at her heart was there for all the world to see. It seemed as if a single red rose petal had melded with the light blue cloth of her shirt next to her middle button and not quite perfectly centered between the smooth hills of her breasts. That red rose petal signified to the world how Guinevere had died and that she had died proudly.

Standing at the side of Guinevere’s bier, Greg decided that he had to make some overt expression of the admiration--of the growing love--he felt for the brave and beautiful woman he had killed. Bracing his hands on the edge of the bier, Greg leaned forward over Guinevere’s resting form. He brought his face close to hers. From no distance at all, he murmured, softly, so that only Guinevere and the angels could hear:

"You have brought honor to your sex, my friend."

He kissed her.