=My Beautiful Rape & Murder=

(I wrote this story a few years ago & posted it on the alt-sex story text repository—ASSTR—site attributing it to a pair of pseudonymous co-authors. It was an attempt to transmute my erotic death fantasies into something resembling literature. Ultimately I think it's  too stylized to be a stroke story & the subject matter too outré for anyone to consider it "literature." Ironically, the postmodern irony of the piece is always entirely neglected, but then I posted it on a sex-story website, where irony is not the first thing people are looking for—or the last. 

I'm always surprised at how many people are disturbed & outraged by my fantasies of extreme masochism & death, as if I can help what I fantasize about, and as if they've forgotten that what they're reading are nothing more than fantasies…ultimately mere stories!  No one is really hurt. And even fictionally no one is hurt but me. Don't I have the right to kill myself off in a story? For that matter, don't I have the right to kill myself off in real life? If I could be murdered in a sexy, relatively painless way, I'd much prefer it to dying a long slow death in a hospital bed riddled with terminal cancer,  for instance. We all have to die sometime. Why not die giving someone a hard-on? That's how I see it. I'd love to donate my corpse to a necrophiliac. Is that weird? So be it. I'd much prefer thinking that I'll be spending my post-life time with a horny, kinky guy than a bunch of bland, largely disinterested relatives marking time before the after-wake nosh.) 

{From heaven I see myself.} I walk into my apartment. I'm probably coming home from the office. I must have done this a thousand times before. I think nothing of it. I'm dressed in a printed silk skirt, a light summer blouse, slingback sandals—just like the working girl I am. 

I putter around a bit—look through the mail, turn on the air-conditioner, click-clack over to the phone to check my messages, etc.—oh, yes, and I'm humming. It's been a long day; I'm glad to be home. 

I stand at the bathroom sink and run the cold water. While I'm looking into the mirror, the intruder (you) suddenly slips up behind me and puts his hand over my mouth. He doesn't want me to call out but I'm too shocked to utter a peep; for long seconds my heart doesn't even beat. He uses words like bitch, cunt, slut. His breath is hot, urgent, harsh where the light hair curls, just below my left ear, on the back of my exposed neck.

It almost tickles.

When I nod that I understand, you take your hand from my mouth and lead me into the kitchen. Where the knives are, I can't help but thinking. You sit me in a chair and bind me tightly with duct tape. The phone rings. We both share a moment of uneasiness, but pretend to ignore it, both the moment and the phone. Eventually it stops. Probably a telemarketer, I think. They always call at dinner time. With the palm of your hand you spread a final square of tape over my mouth as if you were wiping it away altogether.

You go to the refrigerator and grab a carton of juice—orange, mango, banana—I note, unnecessarily. Your adam's apple, with its bristling unshaved hairs, really looks like a fruit, but not an apple. A wild prickly pear, maybe, brown and sweating, certainly inedible. 

The things one thinks, even at times like these.

You watch me closely, bound and gagged, as if I were some sort of exotic butterfly, trapped in a jar.

You've torn open a box of cookies, too impatient to follow the instructions—press here, insert tab, lift slot, etc.—too impatient to realize that the box has already been opened, that your holding it upside down. Cookies have fallen to the floor; not that you notice. Shortbread cookies, a sinful pleasure I indulge; I ration them out one-and-a-half-cookies per night with a cup of tea. You step forward and crush several under your work-boot. That's the way the cookie crumbles, I guess. Ha ha. Now I'm making jokes?

The things one thinks, even at times like these.

{You cross the floor when you've finished your snack}, smack me sharply across the face, and tell me to shut up. “Shut the fuck up you stupid bitch” are your words exactly. I stare up at you, speechless, uncomprehending, when you rip the tape off my mouth. Until that moment, I hadn't realized I'd been making a sound, that in fact I'd been whimpering helplessly almost the entire time. 

I manage a whisper. “Please don't hurt me.” .

I figure you must have removed the tape from my mouth for some reason, but even I know it isn't to hear me say that.

“I'm not going to hurt you, you dumbass cunt. Just do what I say.”

You're looking me over from face to toes. The disgust marches across your face plain as those headlines in lights along the top of a building. You shake your head as you chew. I'm hoping you notice that I'm averting my eyes. I don't want to know what you look like. Later, I want to be able to honestly say that I can't describe you. I want you to know that. Can you tell? If you don't believe me, why don't you blindfold me?

You ask me if I have any money in the apartment. How eager I am to help! I tell you exactly where to find everything I have. Is that all you want? Take it, please, take it all. Off you go into the other room to collect every cent. Almost in spite of myself, I'm thinking: short dark hair, dark eyes, early to mid 20s, dark-complexioned, all but certainly Mexican. Sorry. I wish I could be politically correct but this is the way it is. You return with forty, maybe fifty dollars, and shove it in my snotty face. 

“Where's the rest of it cunt?”

I tell you there isn't any more and you smack me. This happens several times. 

“Where's the rest of it cunt?”

“There isn't any more honest.”

Smack.

“Where's the rest of it cunt?”

“Isn't…more. I swear.”

Smack. Etc.

I start dropping words, slurring the rest, the sentence getting shorter. I'm forgetting the English language. Cash, I want to explain, debit card, I use mostly, so cash, don't much carry. It's impossible to get it out between the blows. I think I'm punch-drunk. Now you are taking me by the chin, almost gently, taking me by the chin between thumb and forefinger, and lifting my face to yours and asking me very quietly, very seriously. “Where's the money bitch?” I've given up trying to convince you. I don't seem capable of answering anymore. What makes you so certain that I'm lying? I wish you would tell me. Then, maybe, I' d be able to tell you the truth in a way that you'd believe. Just tell me what to say. Is that blood I'm swallowing? 

{After a while} you do believe me, but it doesn't bring the relief I'd hoped for. No; now you are angry because you've gone through all this trouble for forty-eight lousy dollars. You shove the bills in my face to show me how poorly you've been rewarded for your efforts, how little I'm worth. Somehow I'm to blame, this is something I really do feel, that I accept, I'm to blame, and I try to apologize, but my mouth and brain don't seem to be working in coordination anymore; my thoughts are mixed together in suspension, like a fluid in a jar that has been shaken.

You tell me you are going to get your money's worth one way or another. You say this to explain why it is your hands are inside my blouse, between my thighs above my stocking tops, feeling me up. You are kissing me, but you are angry; it is some kind of insoluble paradox. You are forcing your tongue, which tastes like a variety of salted pickled deli meats, into my mouth, and biting my lips between your unfeeling teeth. 

Why are you doing this, I wonder? You clearly know what I am. As if to emphasize this, you crush the little lace triangle of my  panties like a wad of used tissue around a loathsome insect. Did I pass out? Did I miss anything important that I need to know? The long groan of wordless animal agony that pours unrestricted from the core of my being fills your mouth...what does it taste like?

You don't let a drop of sound out. You drink it down like aqua vitae in the desert.

I use it to slice the bananas that I add to my fruit smoothie—that knife in your left hand. You're a lefty? I'm sorry; I don't want to notice. You saw through the duct tape binding my ankles and yank me to my feet, my wrists still taped behind me. What now? Is this a good sign or a bad? You jerk me to my feet. My ankle turns—I think my foot might have fallen asleep. How could it have fallen asleep at a time like this? Haha—still making jokes; I haven't lost my sense of humor. Is that the last thing to go? I hope so. Should I share with you my little joke? No, you wouldn't think it's funny and that would be embarrassing.

It's already embarrassing; I might have stumbled if you hadn't had me gripped so tight around the upper arm that your fingernails will leave initials carved into my flesh. Don't I know how to walk in heels by now? 

Awkward girl. 

That's not even what you're thinking, is it?

{At least this much is clear:} we're heading for the bedroom. This simultaneously solves another mystery. You wouldn't think it would have been so hard to figure out but under the circumstances nothing seems safe to assume. If I were a good girl, if I didn't give you a hard time, if I made you feel good...

I could hardly have misunderstood your intonation of the word “girl.” You don't want me to. You made sure I didn't. I couldn't have felt more naked, more exposed, if you'd had my legs thrown over your shoulders and spread my cheeks to bare my dusky rosebud. By saying nothing, by avoiding the obvious, I might still have been clothed by something. Even if it were something you could see right through, a shimmering, if diaphanous nightie. 

Illusion, maybe? 

You wouldn't have to hurt me. That was the deal. Implied, as I understood it, anyway. If I were a good “girl,” if I didn't give you a hard time, if I made you feel good.

Okay, that's fair, I thought. You're giving me more of a chance than most people ever did. A chance to prove myself a girl, a good girl, a good girl good at giving pleasure. Let's see how well I can do; I, who wanted to make myself a girl.

You ask me if I understand. My spaciness probably has you wondering if I'm here at all; if I'm maybe not in shock (maybe I am), or out on my feet from the smack-around. I'm so deep inside myself, simultaneously talking and listening to both sides of this dialectic, I can hardly blame you for thinking I'm not paying attention, for thinking there's something wrong with me.

“Yes,” I say, with a great effort of concentration so exhausting it can only be temporary, and nod my head just in case the words aren't audible, “I understand.”

These words I have to search for, as if I were trying to speak them in a foreign language I don't actually speak even though I think I do.

Understand? Understand what? I don't think I've ever understood a thing.

{At some point before you cum} you put your hands around my throat. You tell me what a stupid fucking bitch I am. That of course you can't let me go. You're on my back at this point, straddling me, riding me, your cock buried so deep in my ass that your balls swinging between my thighs feel like they could be mine. Sorry. I have my own. So, so sorry.

You slowly start to strangle me; it's not altogether straightforward, this strangling, but it seems determined, if it's not consciously coordinated, by the rhythm of your fucking. Your fingers loosen with the pleasure of your thrust, tighten as you withdraw in anticipation of the next plunge. But even with this give-and-take, there's no mistake about your ultimate intention: you're going to crush the life out of me once and for all.

Before you make this announcement, before you introduced your cock into my ass, you had me suck you off, gagging me with the considerable length and girth of your organ. With my wrists still taped, I had no control at all. You pressed my face into your sweaty crotch, fucking my mouth like a pussy. When you came, forcing me to gulp to keep from  simultaneously drowning and suffocating, I thought I'd done as you'd asked, that I made you feel good, like a good girl, and now it was over. You'd leave; life would go on.

I lay on my side on the bed, curled up, sniffling—tears or your cum or both I couldn't tell, leaking seemingly from everywhere—and that's where I stayed, not moving, obedient, while you used the bathroom, washed up, and came back into the bedroom combing your hair beautiful black hair back off your bronzed forehead. 

It's the first time I think: you look like an Aztec priest. All you need is the mantle of brilliantly-colored feathers.

You pulled out some dresser drawers, looked through the closet, snorting derisively at the dresses and blouses you found hanging there, my collection of heels, flats, sandals; you lit a cigarette. You called me some names.

You weren't leaving; you should have by then, but you didn't. You smoked your cigarette to the end and dropped it into the water at the base of a vase of baby carnations on the nightstand. Then you told me to get on my knees with my ass in the air.

You were massaging your already half-hard cock into a full erection and staring at me. You spit on your hands and rubbed your cock faster. It wasn't going to be enough for you to just look at me and jerk yourself off, was it? No, of course not. You jammed two hooked fingers in my asshole and twisted them, like you were trying to uncork a wine bottle.

“I'm tight I know I'm sorry...” 

I whimpered this apology while trying to suggest, to work up the nerve to suggest, that he use the tube of lubricant conveniently located on the floor right there beside the bed. I buried my face in the pillow to smother my moans but he only dug deeper, forcing in another finger, twisting, twisting, until now it felt more like he were trying to core an apple. Was he trying to fist me? What kind of damage would that cause? Was it only my imagination or was I bleeding from there, too?

Only dimly did I concern myself with whether or not he was using protection. It was such a relief when he stopped loosening me up that I could think of little else but thank god he'd replaced his fingers with his cock. It hurt, but hurt less, and that, I reflected indifferently, was a pretty good description of my life, my entire life, up to now.

You can measure your life in heartbeats, so the expression goes. I could  have measured mine in cock-thrusts. Literally. Did I know that? At the time, I mean. On some level, maybe, probably; but for the most part I was living in the moment. My senses were so enlivened, everything was so intense...I could have counted the threads in the pillowcase under my wet and sniveling face if I'd wanted. 

Wow, I thought. I'm being fucked. I'm being raped. I'm somewhat ashamed to admit nothing more profound was being thought, but maybe that's the way it's supposed to be.

By the time the increasing pressure of his fingers around my windpipe registered it struck me as a fait accompli, my impending death, I mean, like the ending of a story I'd already read and up to now only half-remembered. “Oh yes, right, that's how I die, I remember now.” Something along those lines, as if I were Esmerelda in The Hunchback of Notre Dame reading about myself outside myself in a book, if that makes any sense. Maybe it was all the reading I did in my life that permitted me this anesthesic model of depersonalization, even at this most personal of moments. Add that to the benefits of reading, I guess. It helps you live vicariously—and die, distantly, as a spectator.

I know. I stopped addressing you, my Reader, my Rapist, for a couple of interior paragraphs there; I kept you at arm's length, switched you to the third person. I'm sorry. I needed a few private moments to collect myself, my thoughts, my whatever.

I'm back now, struggling, but weakly, almost out of a sense of obligation, a sense of theater. No one likes indifference in a lover—or a victim. Don't you sort of expect a little struggle, a little life-ending wiggle? If nothing else, it feels good around your cock, no?; the last vibrations of life leaving my body, that is. 

It's too late, too late for struggle now, that's clear, but you can hardly blame me for not thinking clearly at this point, when all the synapses in my brain  are winking out, like a switchboard going dead. Signals going nowhere, receptors disappearing, everything incommunicado. 

For an instant, maybe at the penultimate instant, when you see my eyes roll back and my lashes flutter, when you sense that for both of us, like two travelers on the same train disembarking at different destinations, the end, though different, is near, you are almost kind. Your lips brush my cheek, your breath, rasping and hot, urges me to just let it go, to surrender, to let it happen, it's over. 

Like a lover, I can't help but thinking. That's how intimate this moment is, how personal your message. Death comes to me like a lover who'll take what it wants in any event. What more can I ask for? What more--

My body relaxes and as you cum I die.

It's a simultaneous orgasm.

The perfect ending.


Or is it only the beginning?

{Life is full of surprises}--but surprise!--so is death. Who'd of thunk it? 

For certain, I thought the story would end with my letting go, with my last breath trapped in my chest as my face turned eggplant-purple, with my bladder emptying for the last time its contents into the mattress beneath me. I registered the spasming in my rectum, the fireworks behind my blindly bulging eyes, the muscular contractions of your spurting cock—so shockingly alive in my already dead and cooling body—and the obscenities you were growling in my blood-deafened ear as my final sensations. 

Dead, I thought I could not possibly be of any more use to you, of any more interest to you or to anyone, really, and it surprised me to realize that even with the certainty of death upon me, I was wrong about the last thing I could possibly be wrong about. There was an epilogue to the story, one last kink in the narrative to work itself out.

The first thing you do is take whatever jewelry I'm wearing off my body. That's somewhat mystifying, since all the jewelry I own is junk. Rings, bracelets, necklace, even my toe ring—you take it all and taken together it couldn't be worth more than $100, if that. Still, the way you handle my body, stripping it even of these worthless baubles, is weirdly touching, oddly erotic. 

What the heck are you going to do with all that cheap stuff? You can't possibly sell it. Who'd buy it and, besides, what could you possibly get that would make the effort worthwhile? Give a bunch of used bangle bracelets to some other girl? I doubt it. Maybe you'll keep it all in a little plastic zip-loc bag—souvenirs of your kill?

Probably I shouldn't, but I admit I sort of like that idea. You and I, we shared something special, no matter how anyone else defines it, homicide for one. Only we know what really happened here, how you became an Aztec priest and I became your sacrificial victim, and only you're left to remember it among the living.

Next you start arranging my limbs just so, situating them this way and that, posing me according to some secret design all your own. Things get curiouser and curiouser, as the saying goes. But not for long. With your cell phone, you photograph my corpse in various lewd positions. Legs spread, propped like a trussed turkey, splayed, laid, and displayed, you click away, talking to me as if this were a Playboy photo-shoot. Or maybe Hustler. 

You leave the room for a moment. When you return from the kitchen with the broom and begin shoving it into my fucked ass, it's clear you have something much darker in mind than Playboy or Hustler. It's rather alarming to watch how roughly you work, grunting and thrusting to force the broom handle into me; it makes me squeamish and I have to keep reminding myself that I can't feel anything, I'm already dead.

You circle around my corpse, talking to me, telling me to smile, laughing at your own jokes. You say that you're going to sell the pictures you take of me online to perverts who like this sort of thing. Everyone will think they're faked. They'll have no idea they're jerking off to a real dead girl. You clearly get a kick out of the idea. The money you make from the sale of my photos will make it worth the trouble it took to break in here.

“Your worth more dead than alive baby,” you tell me. 

There's no one to object. Besides, he's probably right.  

“Aren't you the lucky girl,” you mock, “getting to be a model. Just think of all the guys who'll be spurting on their keyboards looking at your pictures. A dream cum true, isn't it, you stupid bitch?”

By the nasty tone in your voice I know you're being sarcastic when you say “girl.” I can tell you mean the word “come” to be spelled “cum.” Well, what can I say? Can I honestly deny it? The idea of men looking at my body and seeing a girl and cumming...it is a dream cum true. 

I wonder...will this picture-taking, picture-posting business get him caught? Oddly, I find myself hoping not. My own survival—you might even say my immortality—seems to depend on him getting away with murder. I'd have said “my” murder, but it isn't just mine anymore. It's ours, and it's becoming yours, too, Reader,

When you've exhausted your imagination, or the available memory on your cell phone, you grab me by the ankles and pull me off the mattress. 

Thunk, goes my head as it hits the floor. There's no one home downstairs to hear it, I don't think, and even if there were, they'd hardly think anything of it—figuring I'd dropped a book or a pair of shoes or something.

Where are we going? The bathroom, it turns out. I guess this is where my body will be discovered, not before too long I can only hope. I don't want to be all decomposed and stinky and stuff. Who's likely to find me? I take a mental inventory of the possibilities. There aren't many.

Meanwhile, you've lit up another cigarette, check your cell for messages, and casually drop ashes on my body. Calm as can be, you're one cool customer. You pull down your fly and take out your flaccid brown cock. The jet of hot urine hits me square in the face. You direct the hard stream into my staring eyes, my open mouth is rinsed with your foamy piss. And there's still enough to soak my torn blouse, my hair, what's left of my shredded panties, my silk stockings.

What difference does it make? I have to keep asking myself this question: what difference does it make? Because, at least at first, it's hard to dissociate whatever is speaking here from that poor abused body on the floor. 

You crush out your cigarette on the tiled wall and drop the butt where I lay sodden in a puddle of your piss.

“You take care now sweetheart.”

You say it with a sneer, of course, not letting your priestly mask down for even an instant, not even now that I'm dead, and can't see the real man behind the mask of the rapist-murderer. But I can't help but wonder if you don't, deep-down, feel even a little remorse for what you've done to me, half a thimble-full of pity, or is there nothing behind your mask. Is that my fatal mistake—that what I took for a mask of cold, hard, cruelty is not a mask  at all?

That behind it all is emptiness, like the cosmos behind the mask of “god.”

{Who is it that is talking?} Am I a ghost revisiting the past or am I dreaming of a future yet to be fulfilled?

In other words, is this a scene I'm haunting or is it one I'm hoping for? Is there any difference? Perhaps the two possibilities in this case meet somewhere in the middle, where dreams become reality, where by fantasizing such a crime I make myself that much more likely to become its victim.

Sex is a powerful fuel; it can take us further than perhaps we ought to go, further than we intend. Desire knows no boundaries, not even the one between life and death. I've traveled straight over the border, slipped past the checkpoints, eluded the guards, but I don't know yet whether my mind is following my body or my body trying to catch up to my mind.

If it were indeed my wish to die a thousand times, to live again, only once more to die, then perhaps you could say this really is my dream come/cum true. To die in a way whose retelling might give a man a hard-on is the equivalent of writing a porn story that can weave such a spell of enchantment it can raise his organ of regeneration and draw forth its seed even though we've never met, though we're separated by time, by space, and yes, by life and death itself—what is that but magick?

Perhaps I'm a kind of succubus, haunting men with my story, speaking to them from the darkest corner of their minds, recreating this apartment, this murder, living again—and forever—with each fresh offering of semen...

{Don't weep for me.} I am not sad, or glad; I'm nothing—a ghost, a fantasy. I'm nothing. I got what I was asking for. It shouldn't bother anyone to say it. Maybe not all the time, but this time, on some level, the victim is complicit, a co-conspirator in the crime. 

I don't mind being dead, nor the way I died. It was a dream, a fantasy, when it was over or before it began; either way, it only hurt the once.

Being dead itself is just a dream and a ghost is nothing more than a phantasm, a translucent figure in that dream. You can't hurt what has no substance, what exists no more, what are only words whispered across the stillness of your imagination by a breath not yours, nor any longer mine.

{Don't weep for me but cum}...cum that I may live again to die so beautiful.