Death Becomes Her
‘I see you’ve selected suffocation as your preferred method of execution. This just happens to be a personal favourite of mine.
‘In terms of procedures, well I’m sure you have your own ideas but….’
The Executrix walks over to a drawer and takes out something with her long latex gloves. In her hands she carries a black rubber mask with a black rubber resuscitator device attached.
‘What about something like this?’
The very sight of it makes her victim gasp, overwhelmed with excitement and fear. He writhes and twitches within his thick rubber skin, testing the tight straps securing him to the shiny medical bench beneath.
‘Would you like it if I were to take this mask and place it over your face?
‘I’ll be taking total control of your breathing. In fact I’ll be breathing for you. You’ll see your breath trapped inside the rubber breathing bag, watching it inflate and collapse as you try to inhale and exhale. All the while your precious air getting thinner. And hotter.
‘I have a wide variety of suffocation devices. …bags, hoods, sheets, and my gloved hands to name just a few. I will enjoy methodically working my way through each and every one before your sentence is complete.’
The Executrix leans over and looks right into her victim’s eyes.
‘How do you feel when you hear the word ‘suffocation’?’
He holds his breath and closes his eyes tight, his binding rubber skin getting tighter as his squirming intensifies. And wondering all the while whether she’ll allow him the luxury of seeing her beauty as he perishes, gasping for air throughout.
A requiem moans in the background.
‘Let’s begin, but first you must worship the gloved hands that will be your demise.’
As we’re celebrating all-things delightfully dead and decaying, I figured there could be no more perfect time to reflect upon the ‘inevitable’ and its place within our desires.
So this Halloween I’m musing upon the very darkest of fantasies which have been summoned within my dungeon, courtesy of merciless executioners, insatiable assassins, charming psycho killers, bloodthirsty vampires, and fatal enchantments by the darkest of spells and substances.
Autassassinophilia is the lengthy term for being turned on by the thought of…. being turned off. And if you can pronounce it then you’re definitely destined for heaven.
There’s the obvious overlap with other potential endgame fetishes – erotic asphyxiation (suffocation), aquaphilia (drowning) and taphephilia (being buried alive). Such edge-play games whether purely mental or physically imposed are not for the feint-hearted….literally.
Defibrillators aside, as a role play connoisseur, I’m well-aware that the stuff of nightmares is so often the fuel for our fantasies. Just as we relish shivering and squirming at horror and torture on stage or screen, the prospect of ‘living out’ and actively, rather than passively experiencing death has a certain lure to it too.
As for me, well I love the underlying terror of my willing victim in the centre, their fetishised temptations tactically on show, my objects of torture and termination in the foreground. And myself, the beautiful captor still the absolute focal point throughout.
Will you be granted one final taste of my sweet spit before I put you out of your misery? Will my stilettos stand triumphantly upon your semi-conscious corpse? Will my eyes sparkle sadistically as I lure you into the afterlife? Or will everything go dark, only to have your senses spring to action one last time…to appreciate your agony and my shiny black silhouette?
The Meaning of Life or The Meaning of Death?
Wanting to dabble with death play doesn’t mean you have a death wish, this is the stuff of fantasy after all.
Confronting and ‘stage managing’ your own death is in fact an act of exerting the ultimate control. Eroticising it is yet another step not towards the grave, but towards the reaffirmation and enjoyment of life itself.
Such deadly role plays also prove to be a logical context for some of the most popular BDSM activities.
Heavy bondage and sensory deprivation can be contextualised as being buried alive and left for dead – how appropriate for a restriction or extended duration addict.
One innocent drink in a bar leads to forced intoxication…as you imbibe or inhale those insisted-upon substances. You go weak and your inhibitions melt away leaving you subdued and supplicant….and RIP.
Then there’s the undeniable humiliation of humbly paying your executioner. Having to declare your adoration and devotion before hopelessly accepting your final fate, regardless of how painful or drawn-out.
So what do you think?
Is offering yourself up for sacrifice at the hands of a cruel, beautiful Goddess therefore the ultimate sweet surrender? Could you cope with the ruthless mind games and the uncertainty as to where the fantasy might end as I lovingly prey upon your doubt and terror, excitement, helplessness, dread….and therefore unquestioning subservience.
So much slow-acting poisoned food for thought!
Let’s end on a lighter note because where death is concerned it’s not always a serious matter of morbid measures. Laughter and comedy sometimes prevail. I once had a subject who loved to hear me describe in forensic detail how I intended to despatch him. The more gruesome and gruelling the better. I came armed with drills and devices, scalpels and saws and many a grisly and determined tale. His reaction was to look on, laugh and heckle me at every turn. It felt like a bizarre comedy routine but always proved to be a lot of fun….gallows humour at its very best.
Well I hope you’ve enjoyed my chilling tales from the crypt, it’s enough to make anyone beg for the grave. Rest in peace perverts, I’ll see you in Hell…..and Happy Halloween!
Just in case: The Samaritans