Posted by Strange Dog on June 29, 2006 at 17:57:46:
Guinevere Tells How She Decided What She Wanted—And Got It
by Strange Dog
When I got up this morning I had a premonition that it was my day to die, so I put on my favorite clothes. It’s important for a woman to look her best for the big events in her life, even her own death—especially her own death. That’s especially true in my case, given what I do for a living: I am Guinevere Jones, world-class spy with a cover identity of world-class fashion model. I mean, if I’m going to die with a couple bullets in my body, I want the feel of my favorite clothes on my body when it happens. And the right looking clothes can make your death look right too. For example, if it’s my fate to die with two bullets in my chest, then a smooth, snug, crisp, light-colored shirt can set off the two bloodstains beautifully. That’s what I’ve always thought, anyway.
There is no arrogance, no vanity, when I contemplate how beautiful I am when I look in the mirror. It’s just a simple, objective fact that I’m stunningly beautiful and people can do with that fact whatever they want. What they have done with that fact is idolize me as a fashion model, even while I lead my dual existence as a spy. I enjoy autographing photos of myself in fashion catalogs handed to me by love-struck adolescent boys. They would become delirious if they knew that concealed beneath my skirt is a tiny automatic pistol in a holster strapped to my upper thigh.
I am tall, slender, lithe, and attractively muscled. I make myself seem even taller, the way I carry my shoulders proudly up and back and my head erect. My austerely beautiful facial features add to my regal look. My cheekbones are high and sharp, my jaw clean and firm, my nose long, narrow, and straight. My lips are sensually full, but without exaggeration. And my eyes—my eyes are dark and deep, yet, when the light catches them, they seem to radiate a shower of sparkles from where they are set in my fair-complexioned face. My hair seems to be any shade between medium brown and ash blonde depending on how each long lock lies beneath the light. I wear it long, simple, and straight, parted down the middle. It falls past my shoulders in a natural mane and goes down my back outside the collar of my shirt.
My favorite fashion look is very 1970s, but in a way that still looks classic, not dated. It’s a look that has come back if you consider what a lot of female talking heads are wearing on the TV news these days. My favorite fashion look is office professional woman shirt-skirt-heels.
Like my facial features, my clothes are simple and sharp yet consummately elegant. I wear a plain but crisp looking shirt, light blue in color. My shirt has long sleeves with turn-back style French cuffs fastened with conservative silver cufflinks. My shirt has three buttons down the front, plus two more at the collar. The lower button is just above my navel and the middle button lies low on my heart, perfectly centered between my breasts. I always fasten the lower shirt button at my tummy and the middle button at my heart. The upper button of my shirt is at the upper part of my chest. This upper button, and the two buttons at my collar, I leave undone, revealing the smooth flesh of my upper chest in a plunging “vee” neckline. My wide, long, pointy shirt collar forms angular planes of cloth that complement the angularities of my facial features. About my neck is a choker necklace of dark blue and dark red American Indian beadwork. I wear my shirt tucked into a slim, simple, dark blue “A-line” miniskirt. My skirt is not a super-short “slut” skirt—it is of a ladylike length, but it still ends well above my knees. My skirt does not have a belt, per se—rather, it has a broad, snug-fitting waistband which laces up in front in the peasant style. The waistband of my skirt snugly gathers in my shirt, accentuating the contours of my ample but firm boobies. And my high heels—my dark blue high-heeled, open-toe, strappy sandals give me an added few inches that make me an imposing tower of beauty.
*******
My mission today was only half successful and half success cost me my life.
Yes, I stole the manila file folder containing the top secret documents from the enemy’s headquarters office building. That part was surprisingly easy. My forged identity card and access papers got me into the other side’s document vaults with less hassle than I anticipated. Seriously, I expected better from our opponents. If my feminine charm and beauty made my way easier, so be it.
I got the documents back to my hotel room with no perspiration at all. I pulled the low coffee table out into the middle of the room, laid the folder on it, pulled out the documents, spread them out, and started perusing them. Yes, these are the electrical schematics for the enemy’s new radar jammers and I’ve gotten my hands on them just in time to benefit our side, I thought to myself. My superiors will be pleased.
Still, a sense of ill-ease gnawed at me as I sifted through the papers on the coffee table. I hiked up my skirt and took my pistol out of the concealed holster strapped to my upper thigh. I smoothed out my skirt again and inserted my pistol muzzle-end-first into the top of the snug waistband of my skirt at the small of my back. The barrel of my pistol was parallel to, and pressing against, the lower part of my spine. It would easier to reach there if something sudden and unpleasant happened, though I felt only a vague intuition what that something might be.
As I became more and more absorbed in reading through the technical papers spread out before me on the coffee table, my sense of foreboding drifted out of my thoughts. After several minutes of reading, I stood up straight. I let my left arm hang naturally at my side and placed my right hand absentmindedly and nonchalantly on my right hip. I canted my head downward slightly to focus on the papers spread out before me and I let the significance of my successful act of espionage percolate in my brain. Such was my physical posture, and such was my state of mind, at the beginning of the last five minutes of my life.
There was a loud crunching and splintering of wood as the door of my hotel room was expertly kicked open. I didn’t even have time to be startled. My posture becoming frozen, my hand still on my hip, I raised my eyes—and there he was.
Nicholas Steele, the best, nay the legendary, secret agent from the “other side.” Everything about his appearance and manner did honor to his reputation—a reputation I knew from intimate personal experience. The darkly rakish good looks, the superb fashion sense, it was all there. He was wearing a classic English-tailored three-piece suit with matching red silk tie and handkerchief and a gold watch chain low across the front of his vest. His hawk-like facial features were perfectly complemented by his immaculately trimmed dark mustache and beard. As always, he looked like an Edwardian-period gentleman with a yacht and membership in an exclusive hunt club.
Oooooooh, what a past he and I shared. The erotic ambivalence of love-hate to the nth degree. Over the years, we had been through every conceivable permutation of spy, counter-spy, counter-counter-spy. The tangles of our intrigues got even me confused sometimes. Was I really on his side? Was he really on mine? Who was deceiving whom? Which of us was really working for which side? Over the years, we had attempted to kill each other as many times as we had sex with each other. And what sex. We had sex on the beach at St. Tropez at midnight. We had sex in front of the fireplace in a ski chalet in the Swiss Alps. We had sex under the eaves of an ancient, abandoned Buddhist monastery in Nepal. We had sex in a canoe floating down the Amazon River, the warm mist rising off the surface of the water and the triple-canopy jungle around us. Sex—but love? Or wretched hate fucks with each striving to use the other more viciously?
Damn him, but I knew I was far from the only major babe in his conceited existence. His far-ranging sexual athleticism was as legendary as his technical proficiency and ruthlessness in espionage. Yes, I knew he had a sexual scorecard with every beautiful woman he knew a tick mark on it. The strong part of me scorned him and scorned his scorecard. But the weak part of me silently yearned to know where I ranked on that scorecard. Nick, you arrogant shit, see what you’ve reduced (part) of me to? Does that part of me “love” you? Yes, damn you, it does.
So I pondered Nicholas Steele as he stood in the kicked-in doorway of my hotel room.
And he had his pistol leveled at the middle of my chest.
I didn’t allow my posture to so much as twitch. I stood just as I was, my left arm down along my side, my right hand on my hip, my pistol snugly against my lower backbone in the top of my skirt, hidden from Steele’s view. I locked his eyes with my eyes in a steady gaze.
My face serene, my voice calm, I spoke first, the deep, rich resonance of my voice filling the room and making Steele arch his eyebrow.
“Hello, Nick.”
“Hello, Guinevere.” His voice dripped with his roguish but polished insouciance. He went on. “Now Guin. I compliment your skill in stealing those documents but it’s time for you to return them. I surmise that you have your pistol concealed from me behind your back, stuck into the waistband of your skirt. This is what I want you to do. Slowly—raise your hands straight over your head as high as you can. Drop to your knees. Flop onto your tummy and go spread-eagle on the floor, face down. I’ll come to one side of you and relieve you of your pistol. Kindly don’t move. Cooperate, and you’ll get to enjoy the New Coalition’s hospitality in prison.”
I began my final silent conversation with myself inside my thoughts. So. The rest of my life in prison. Enduring whatever interrogation techniques do not technically violate the Geneva Convention but still qualify as torture to most laymen. Not attractive. Go for my pistol? Let’s see . . . to go for my pistol, I would have to remove my right hand from my right hip, reach behind my back, grasp my pistol, pull my pistol out of the top of my skirt, bring my pistol around to my front, aim, and squeeze the trigger . . . And my dear Nicholas already has his finger on his trigger, the trigger slack already taken up, and the sights aligned on my middle shirt button where it fastens over my heart. To go to prison is to endure a living hell and to go for my pistol is to die.
To die. No matter what I do, I’ll be just another beautiful woman who became just another tick mark on Nicholas Steele’s scorecard. That arrogant bastard. I could see his casually assumed sense of superiority in his eyes and it was maddening. But to die fighting. To become a tick mark that will command a little more respect than all the other tick marks. Death isn’t so bad. Supposedly, death is the best orgasm of all—that’s why they save it for last. And to be a woman who died at the hands of Nicholas Steele, whether I pant for him or loathe him, that is a mark of distinction—erotic distinction. I can decide to become one of a select few beautiful women who walk around in the Hereafter bragging that I have Nicholas Steele’s bullet embedded in my heart. Death and sex, sex and death. A sexy death received from Nicholas Steele. Just thinking about it gives me an erotic frisson.
I made my decision.
He read it in my eyes. Through the cloth of my shirtsleeve, he saw the infinitesimal change in tension in the muscles of my right arm and shoulder. There could not have been more than a millimeter of separation between my right hand and hip when he put the final ounce of pressure on his trigger. He squeezed it twice, in fact.
Light travels faster than sound, so I saw the two muzzle flashes before I heard anything.
Bang! Bang!
“Unh! Unh!”
My cry of sudden pain had two distinct syllables as I felt a first and then a second bullet bore into my chest a fraction of a second apart. The first bullet hit me one inch directly below my middle shirt button. The second bullet hit me immediately above my middle button. I had two holes in my chest, one directly above the other, perfectly centered in the valley between my tits. I could feel little spurts of blood shoot out of the two holes in my chest. I could feel two little circles of the cloth of my shirt get wet and sticky around each bullet hole. My killer had decorated the front of my smooth, crisp, light blue shirt with two small, neat, wet, round little red holes.
The sensations of first one bullet and then a second bullet tearing through my anatomy created a flood of perceptions that flowed over my brain in slow motion. Every time the first bullet created a new physical sensation as it drilled its way through my body, that sensation was instantly overtaken and overwhelmed by a new sensation caused by the second bullet as it made its own way through me. Each sensation lasted for an infinitesimally brief moment, but, for my mind, the totality of sensations created an eternity of suspended time.
I felt the first bullet touch and then punch through my skin low on my chest and then I felt it bore through the softness of my flesh as it passed below the lower end of my sternum. But just as I felt the first bullet pass beneath my sternum to sink deeper within me, I felt my sternum shatter from the impact of the second bullet. I felt the first bullet shudder to a stop, deep within my lower chest, just below my heart—but then I felt shards of my shattered sternum go ripping and spinning through my heart. And then—and then, I felt the second bullet rupture the front wall of my heart. I felt the hot, heavy lead slug shove its way into the very center of my heart and I felt it come to rest there. I felt my heart thump and thud, throb and burn, as it desperately strove to keep on beating around the spent bullet embedded deep within it.
At the instant of impact, my eyes slammed shut, my head rocked back, my chest thrust itself out, my back arched, my forearms flew up and out to each side, and my hands splayed open, the fingers spread wide. My body locked itself in that position like a statue, even while I felt a stunning pulse of pain surge through every atom of my body. I felt my knees lock beneath me, holding me upright in temporary denial of Death.
The grimace on my face softened into a beatific expression of erotic pleasure.
I can’t remember if I murmured some stupidly inane comment such as “you got me” or only thought the words silently.
I surrendered to the twin forces of death and gravity that were pulling me down. I laid my head farther back, raising my face toward the ceiling. I spread my arms out wide to each side and then I fell straight back, toppling over like a tree felled by a woodsman. My back hit the floor with a loud thud.
Now I’m lying flat on my back with my shoulders level and square. I’m really tits up and I’m looking good. My head is not canted to one side or the other. My head is tilted straight back with my chin pointed upwards. My eyes are gently closed and my lips just oh-so-slightly parted. I have the same expression on my face as when I’m asleep having a nice dream. I sense that my long hair is prettily spread out on the carpet to make a halo around my face. My arms are spread wide on the floor to each side, as straight out as they can go. My legs are extended gracefully out. My legs and feet are gracefully together, as is correct for a lady. Both my knees are bent upwards just a little, but with my left knee just a little higher than my right.
My pistol is still in the waistband of my skirt at the small of my back. I’m lying on top of my pistol and the pressure it’s exerting is accentuating the arch of my back and the skyward thrust of my breasts.
My clothes are still in good order. My shirt collar feels like it’s lying straight and even. I can feel the cloth of my shirt lying taut and smooth over the contours of my dying body. I can feel my skirt neatly draped over my thighs. I can feel my necklace nestling at the base of my throat. And I can feel my high heels still securely on my feet.
The off-white short pile carpet I’m lying on nicely sets off my appearance.
So here I am, lying on my back in a graceful pose on the floor of a hotel room with two bullets embedded deep in my chest. Here I am with a peaceful expression on my face while I experience my death. I’m dying. It’s going to take me less then ten seconds to die, but, each second will seem like a chapter of eternity to me. In these last seconds of my life, I’ll have plenty of time to think about how it all feels.
Now I know why the French call orgasm “the little death.” This is my big death and this is the most fantastic, most electrifying, most ground-trembling orgasm of my life. I can feel the two bullets deep and heavy in my chest. The first one is embedded an inch down from my heart and the second one is lodged in the “dead” center of my heart. My heartbeat is starting to subside as Death settles over me. But the nerve endings of my shredded heart muscles are still on fire as they kiss the lead slug buried in my heart. The cut nerve endings in my heart are sending shockwaves of pain to the extremities of my body. The shockwaves of pain are shockwaves of ecstasy and I feel the ecstasy of my death radiating out to the tips of my fingers, the tips of my toes, even to the ends of my long hair.
My chest is heaving up and down, up and down, in great slow waves of sweet agony. With each heave of my chest, a long low moan passes out from my lips and fills the room. I wonder if Nick is getting an involuntary erection while he watches me lying here enjoying my death orgasm. Nick, you’re sexually hot, my friend, but you’re nothing but an accessory to my beautiful death. Thanks, though.
In less than an hour from now, the coroner guys will be here to deal with my dead body.
They will place colored tape on the carpet to make an outline around my dead body.
Then they will take pictures of my dead body.
And they will think to themselves that I am the most graceful, the most elegant, the most beautiful dead body they have ever seen. And they will be right. They will talk quietly among themselves about how beautiful I am as I lie dead in front of them.
When I’m laid out dead on my slab at the morgue, people will think how beautiful I am.
When I’m laid out dead in my casket, people will think how beautiful I am—and they will remember it.
I hope they give me a casket with a light blue lining to color-coordinate with my shirt. I hope they lay my arms down along my sides, with my pistol in my hand. And I really hope they lay me dead in my casket wearing these same favorite clothes I was wearing when I was shot and when I had my death orgasm and when I died. I hope they look at the two little red circles on the front of my light blue shirt and I hope they think the little red circles look like rose petals.
Here it comes—the final climax of my final climax. My eyes are closed, but the Light is coming through my closed eyelids and it’s blinding me and I love it. The heaviness in my chest is becoming a surreal emptiness. I have become one with the Universe and the Universe is about to slide out from under me. This is the final upward heave of my chest, this is my final orgasmic moan. . . .
Oooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
I’m going to die with my back arched and my boobs thrust upward toward Heaven. I’m going to die with my head titled back, my chin pointed at the sky, and a look of bliss on my sleeping face. . . .
These are my final thoughts.
I’m dying.
I’m dying.
I’m . . . Dead.
I lie still.
I am beautiful.
Be amazed at my beauty.
I am dead.