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.

The toc-toc, toc-toc, of a woman confidently striding across the flooring stones in her high heels echoed through the ruins of the medieval monastery. The bright, late-morning spring sun threw down sharp shadows along the colonnade of the long-abandoned cloisters.

Secret Agent Guinevere Jones enjoyed the light breeze that came through the old, ivy-covered pillars and she enjoyed feeling how the cool freshness of morning was turning into the soft warmth of midday. She felt the cool breeze and the warming sun caress her skin as she walked briskly through the ruins and she smiled inwardly at the pleasure the breeze and sun gave her. She smiled too at the interplay between the name her father had given her and her present surroundings. She wondered if, centuries before, that other "Guinevere" had paced over these worn flagstones when the monastery was still new.

Guinevere Jones looked like, and bore herself like, a woman of noble quality of whom bards would have sung in ages past. 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 as she walked. 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 the sun caught it at the moment. She wore it long, simple, and straight, parted down the middle. It fell past her shoulders in a natural mane and it swung with each stride she took.

If Guinevere bore herself like a queen of old, her clothing was modern. Like her facial features though, her garments 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 fluttered just a little with the vigor of her strides. 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 kept up their toc-toc sound on the stones as she breezed through the ruins toward her rendezvous.

Secret Agent Nicholas Steele heard her coming and turned to watch her approach. She was walking along the colonnade and he was entranced by the way she moved from brilliant light to deep darkness and back again as she strode through the alternating spaces of light and shadow that the sun cast in the long row of pillars. He saw the bright smile that came to her face as she realized it was him. She came right up to him and the toc-toc of her high heels ceased as she stood before him, looking him straight in the eyes with her smile--the same smile that had made him fall in love with her when they had trained together at the Academy.

"Hello, Nick."

Nicholas felt his knees get a bit wobbly at the deep, rich, resonance of her voice--like they always did.

"Hello, Guin. I’ve missed you. What’s this all about?"

"Well . . . you’re going to kill me."

Nicholas’ face froze for a moment. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me right, Nick. You’re going to kill me. But trust me, there’s a good reason. Of course you know how the other side managed to steal copies of Level One of our top secret code disks last week? Well, as you also know, the Level One disks are useless without the Level Two disks to complete them. We destroyed all the Level Two disks and made different ones the same day we learned about our loss of the Level One disks. But . . . the ‘but’ is that as chief formulator for the Code Section, I still have the contents of the old Level Two disks in my head. Supreme Command has decided that for security reasons, I have to die. The good news is that I get to pick how, where, and by whom I die. That’s why you’re here. I told Supreme Command I want you to do the job. Don’t look so long-faced, Nick. We all knew about these risks when we volunteered for the Force."

Nicholas felt his breathing become difficult. He stared at Guinevere, swallowed hard, glanced away for a moment, and then fixed his eyes on her even more firmly than before.

"Guin, I. . . ."

"Nick, please. Work with me on this. If I have to die, I might as well make it as pleasant for myself as I can. We both know we’ve had the hots for each other since the Academy. Even if 'The Rules' have kept us from getting intimate with each other, we both know that we share a peculiar little . . . fetish . . . in common. Look, Nick, after a few years on the Force, I really have gotten kind of disillusioned with life in general. Like they say--Death is the best orgasm of all; that’s why they save it for last."

Nicholas swallowed again, coughed, and tried to suppress the quaver in his voice. "How is this going to work, Guin?"

"You kill me, right here, right now. Then you leave. In thirty minutes, Team Zulu will come here to pick up my dead body. Only Supreme Command will know that it was you who did me."

"Okay, Guin. Sure. Fine . . . how do you want it?"

Nicholas’ eyes widened as he saw Guinevere hike up her skirt and draw out the long, slender dagger from the sheath that was strapped to her upper leg. She held the dagger gingerly by the blade in her right hand. She took his right hand with her left hand, uncurled his fingers, laid the hilt of the dagger in his palm, and closed his fingers on it. She let her hands return to her sides.

"There ya’ go," she said, her dark, glowing eyes drilling straight into his.

"Guin, I’m not sure I know how to do this. . . ."

Guinevere rolled her eyes and a hint of exasperation came into her voice. "Nick, it’s very simple." She reached out with her right hand and took him by his left wrist. "This is your left arm." She guided his hand to place his left forearm across the small of her back. "You use your left arm to hold me up while you stab me. Then you use it to lay me down gently while I die." Then, with her left hand, she took his right fist that was clenched on the dagger’s hilt. She raised his fist until the point of the dagger was touching the cloth of her shirt just below her middle button. She once more laid her arms along her sides, her right arm draped over his left arm as it encircled her torso. "This is your dagger. With a firm, smooth motion, you drive it into my body up to the hilt. Repeat as needed until I die. And Nick--make it slow and make it good. I want to feel every inch of every thrust."

Nicholas felt as if he had turned to stone. This was a hell of a way to prove to the woman he loved how much he loved her. The cloth of Guinevere’s shirt was stretched taut between her breasts. Ever so delicately, Nicholas pushed the dagger in until he felt the point just incise the cloth and meet the first resistance from Guinevere’s flesh. Then he stopped. They stared into each other’s eyes for a short moment that seemed like a long one. Her eyes were filled with hopeful expectation. His eyes were filled with dutiful sorrow. He spoke.

"Are you ready?"

She closed her eyes and took a not very deep breath. She opened her eyes and locked him in her gaze.

"I’m ready."

He pushed. He pushed slowly and evenly. He felt her skin compress and then break as the point pierced it. He felt the blade slide into her, he watched the shiny metal blade disappear into the light blue cloth of her shirt, he saw the little wet red circle appear on her shirt around the blade and he saw the circle grow. Through his left arm that he held across the small of her back, he felt her whole body suddenly grow rigid. He saw her close her eyes and lay back her head.

"Uuunnnhh!"

Guinevere felt the tickle turn into a sharp little hurt, she felt the sharp little hurt grow and deepen into pain that shook her whole being, she felt her insides being parted--the point of the dagger was as sharp as a needle but the blade widened toward the hilt and she felt the upper and lower edges of the blade slicing her flesh as the dagger made its vertical gash. The point had started just below her middle shirt button. She felt the point come up under the lower end of her sternum, she felt it sink upwards into her, she felt the upper edge of the blade just graze the bottom of her heart. The blade stopped. The crosspiece on the hilt had reached the cloth of her shirt.

Guinevere brought her head level again. She opened her eyes. She suppressed the spasm of pain that tried to shake her body. She stared into Nicholas’ sad, incredulous eyes. She spoke.

"Again."

Nicholas pulled his arm back, the now reddened blade slid out of Guinevere’s body the way it had gone in and was once more in the light.

"Ooooohh," moaned Guinevere as she once more closed her eyes and lay back her head.

Nicholas placed the point to her shirt, right below her lower button. Once more, Nicholas held the dagger so the broad part of the blade was up and down to make a vertical gash. He paused a moment. Then he pushed. The resistance seemed a little less this time and he thought he sensed a squishiness as the point sank through Guinevere’s viscera. Another wet red circle appeared on light blue cloth and grew.

"Aaahhhh!"

Guinevere felt it come straight through her navel. She felt the tip of the dagger tickle the back wall of her navel and then pierce it. She felt the blade of the dagger follow behind the point--she felt the widening blade fill up her navel and then tear her flesh north and south of her navel. She felt her blood ooze warmly out from where her navel had been. She felt the length of the blade sink through the depth of her guts and stop.

She kept her eyes closed, but serenely, not tightly. She spoke--not gasping, but calmly as she refused to surrender to the pain.

"Keep going."

Nicholas pulled out the blade. He thought he could hear a gurgling sound from within Guinevere’s tummy that was only partly masked by her low groan. He raised his aim. He brought the dagger up high and level. He put the point to her left breast, a little below where he judged her nipple to be. He pushed in just enough to cut through a thickness of shirt and a thickness of brassiere and to tickle a surface of skin. Then he stopped and the point of his dagger became a question mark.

Guinevere murmured her approval: "Yes. . . ."

He pushed and he felt the point sink in. He saw that it was little-red-circle-on-light-blue-cloth-time again. As he felt his blade slide forward and his hand follow behind, he felt his own heart sink to his shoes in sorrow at the shambles he was making of the one he loved.

Her eyes were closed and she saw the brightness of the sunlight through her eyelids, not the progress of the blade. That she only felt, but feeling was enough. She felt the tickle below her nipple turn into a puncture and the puncture turn into a growing tear. The point came in a little less than an inch below her nipple but when the wider part of the blade arrived, she felt the upper edge slice into her nipple. She felt it all--she felt her breast compress a little and then return to its original shape as the blade sank through it. She felt the edges of the blade grate against two of her ribs as it forced its way between them. She felt the point pick up a little speed as it entered the hollowness of her chest cavity. She felt the point stop deep within her at the same instant she felt the crosspiece of the hilt come to rest against her nipple. She felt the cloth of her brassiere grow warm and wet and sticky against her skin as her blood oozed out of her wound.

She murmured. "More."

Nicholas shook off the convulsive sob he felt growing within him. "Look, she’s loving it," he tried to tell himself and he hated the part of himself that knew it to be true. He pulled out the dagger, quickly but smoothly, as Guinevere moaned low. He felt a need for symmetry. He shifted his feet a little to stand a bit away from Guinevere and give himself some more room to wield his dagger--his left forearm was still across her lower back, but, to his amazement, she had yet to lean most of her weight back on it. He put the point to her right breast, in the spot that corresponded to where he had pierced her left. Like a robot, not even feeling it now, he pushed and watched his blade sink in.

For Guinevere, all the sensations were the same, just mirrored from the left side of her body to the right. She choked down the blood that was trying to surge up her throat. She didn’t want the sight of blood trickling out of her mouth to demoralize Nicholas anymore than he already was. She pushed down another shock wave of pain. She knew she was coming to the End and she welcomed it. She opened her eyes. She fixed her dying gaze on her friend. She spoke.

"Finish me." She closed her eyes again.

Nicholas pulled the dagger out of her right breast with perhaps less smoothness than he felt he should have. He stood close to her again. There was only one place left for him to go to obey Guinevere’s last command. His mind, trained in the arts of the assassin, knew exactly where the final point of aim had to be. He put the dagger’s point to the cloth of Guinevere’s shirt, two inches up and two inches to his right from her middle shirt button. This time, he held the hilt and the wide axis of the blade horizontally--the better to pass easily between Guinevere’s ribs and next to her sternum as the point sought her heart.

Nicholas held the tip of the dagger to Guinevere’s chest at her fatal soft spot. He paused the briefest moment to gather himself, and then . . . he pushed. He felt the point break her skin and slide inward between her ribs, he felt the whole blade sink deep into her chest, he felt the dagger suddenly start to buck and throb in his hand as the blade buried itself in her frantically beating heart. . . .

Guinevere could feel it coming. In the first micro-second of the thrust, she could feel the point pierce her skin between two of her ribs. In the next micro-second she felt the blade come sliding in between her ribs, and in the micro-second after that she felt the blade sinking and ripping through her own beating heart. . . .

"Ooooohh. . . ."

She felt the point shudder to a stop in her backbone. She felt her heart tearing itself to shreds as it tried to beat around the blade. She felt no pain. She felt a massive heaviness bearing down on her chest that was slowly turning into a great lightness. She knew that this was it. She opened her eyes for the last time. She gazed into her friend’s eyes for the last time. She spoke for the last time. In gasps. "Nick . . . you got me . . . just leave it buried in my chest . . . it’s my dagger anyway. Now lay me down. And get out of here . . . Nick . . . Thanks."

She closed her eyes and in the same instant Nicholas was staggered by the whole weight of her body falling back against his left arm that was behind her. He instantly let go of the dagger with his right hand, leaving it embedded in her heart, and reached his right hand behind her to clasp his left. Gently, oh so gently, he lowered her to the floor. She lay flat on her back with her arms flung out to each side. Her chest, the dagger still standing in it up to the hilt, arched toward the sky. The bloodstain at her heart, circling the dagger, was a little bigger than the other bloodstains--five red circles on light blue decorated the front of her shirt. Her long hair lay all about her head like a halo. Her eyes were lightly closed and her lips just slightly parted in the most serene expression of peaceful sleep that Nicholas had ever seen. He knelt beside her. He contemplated her. He sought for the peace in her face that he needed for his own soul. He brought his face close to hers. He kissed her.

Sometime between the moment she closed her eyes and the moment her body touched the floor, Guinevere Jones felt the sun warm on her face for the last time and she felt the Universe slide away.