"You want me to help you do what?"
I had to restrain myself so as not to scream; we were, after all, in a public place.
"You heard me," Sara said, "I want you to help me impale myself."
"You are fucked up crazy. How can you ask me to do that?"
I hadn't seen Sara for seven years or so; since she married that old Dom, more than twice her age. That was the day I decided enough was enough and I broke off our relationship.
Sara and I had been best friends since high school, her choice, not mine. I always wanted more, but she wanted what was not mine to give.
Perhaps I should begin, at the beginning.
Sara was, and is, a very attractive girl. Even now, at twenty nine, she retains those sky blue eyes, those freckles and that red hair with gold highlights that drove me crazy throughout high school. That she liked me should have made things easier, but that was not how it worked out.
Problem was: Sara was a masochist, a very submissive masochist who also was extremely intelligent. I was, and am not at all sadistic, nor really interested in that kind of stuff. Not that I don't enjoy a bit of extreme porn here and there, but it's just not my thing. I know; Sara and I tried it once.
It just did not work. I could not bring myself to hurt her, not enough, not by a mile, as much as she needed to be hurt.
That's why we remained best friends.
Until I could not take it anymore.
You see, Sara was a really smart and savvy girl, even then.
"Will you help me?" she said.
What she wanted, back then, was for me to vet her prospective Doms.
"I need to be totally vulnerable," she told me, "and that is dangerous."
"You don't say," I replied.
"I need you to help me, to keep me safe."
"And just how do I do that?" my annoyance showing in my voice more, perhaps, than I intended.
"You are good with information, I want you to research them, find out if they've been in jail, arrested, that kind of thing."
And that I did for many years, reliable old John, who could be trusted to find out who was safe and who wasn't. All those years wasted, jerking off, thinking of what she was going through, jealous, yet unable to give her what she wanted. Until she found Gustav.
She met him and, after I pronounced him safe, she went with him, into his home, into his dungeon, into his life.
One day, I received an envelope, in the mail. An old fashioned wedding invitation.
She was marrying the old codger.
I tore up the invitation. I sent the RSVP back, with regrets, and a handwritten note:
"You don't need me anymore."
That was seven years ago.
Yesterday, I received a note, by snail mail asking to meet me. So here I was, listening to this madness.
Only the sight of her eyes, of the tears glistening on the red rimmed eyelids, kept me there.
"He is dying," she said.
"He's been in hospice for a while," she dabbed with a tissue at her eyes, "He is coming home tomorrow, it's only a matter of days now."
Then she told me her plan.
"I'll do it."
I drove the rented van to the house and found the garage door open, as she'd told me it would be. I parked the van inside and closed the garage door. In the back were three TV cameras, borrowed from my job at the station, two of them, tripod mounted remote units and one, a hand held one. A powerful laptop allowed me to mix and select the feed, just as they do for a football or golf game. In fact, this was the exact rig we used for high school football games; portable and effective.
I put on a white bunny suit and latex gloves before entering the large enclosed patio.
Sara had described the contraption that would end her life; even so, I felt an unnamed emotion climb up my gut when I saw the upright, sharp steel pole standing in its place, by the old fashioned, wheeled airplane staircase. Where she found that, I could not tell. Maybe some old aviation memorabilia store, somewhere. She had modified the staircase and now it sported motorized, remote control wheels. There was a narrow, rectangular piece cut of the landing, where passengers would walk into the plane; the pole rose through it, like a malevolent steel penis.
I went up to his room. The picture windows opened to the patio where she planned to suffer her final torment for him. He lay in the bed, a shriveled stick of a man, barely able to lift a hand in a mute salute when I entered. Bedridden, he would be unable to watch from the window his loving wife's sacrifice.
That's where I came in.
On the wall, across from the bed was an enormous flat screen TV.
My job was to be the producer and director of Sara's last show. I set the laptop by the picture window, where I would be able to see her, without cameras. I kept the hand held camera in the room. I set one of the fixed cameras at the same height as the tip of the pole, aimed at it. I did not think I would need to move this camera much. The second one, I set at the same height, but from the side. I arranged three sets of klieg lights to make sure the illumination was perfect. I could feed more light as needed as the sun set. We would start at two o'clock and I didn't think it would go on after sunset but, nevertheless, if it did, I would be prepared.
Their amateur camera sat on a tripod, where it would not record my system. I could turn it on by remote control.
The Blue ray player on the bedroom's entertainment system was set to record the feed from the two fixed cameras. Not the one from the hand held one. Inside the laptop, a blue ray recording drive would preserve the live feed that would appear on the flat screen.
I met Sara downstairs, in the kitchen. She wore a white linen kimono with the name of some spa written in Chinese characters on the back. Her red and gold hair fell in long curls on her shoulders.
"Do you have everything?" she asked.
"Yes, I set up the cameras and the controls."
"I mean everything."
"Do you still intend to go through with it?" I replied.
"Yes, I am not going to survive my husband. This is the last and only thing I can do for him now. I will not deny it him."
"Do you have everything?" she asked again.
There was something else in the van.
"Yes, everything," I replied.
"I'll go say goodbye," she said.
"Before you go, there's something I want to ask you."
"Yes," she said.
"May I see you, naked, just once."
In all these years, I had never seen her naked body. Only once had I seen her glorious buttocks, that day that I spanked her, not hard enough. That was all.
"I guess you are entitled to it," she said with a sad little smile on her lips.
She dropped the kimono that slid in a puddle of linen around her feet.
Her skin was alabaster white, covered by cinnamon freckles on her arms and shoulders. Her breasts were heavy, firm, crowned by areolas the color of fine strawberry ice cream, the one without artificial coloring. My eyes dropped to her sex where her fiery pubes had been trimmed into a perfect equilateral triangle. Her thighs had not lost any of the tone that I remembered from gym class.
"Shall I turn around?"
Her hair fell on her shoulders, like an inverted flame. Her back was glorious, her spine melted into the most perfect ass I had ever seen. I could barely resist the urge to grab those glorious globes and bury my face between them. She must have felt it too.
"You can see, but no touching," she said.
After an interminable minute, I said:
"No more, go before I lose my resolve."
She donned the kimono and went upstairs.
I returned to the van. There was something else there.
Being on the news beat at the TV station put me in contact with some of the, less savory elements of our society. Some of them owed me a favor or two.
She knelt, naked, on the back of the van, her hands bound behind her back and tied to a chain on her waist. Her eyes were covered by a thick blindfold, padded at the ears. I had personally plugged her ears with thick latex plugs before blindfolding her. She could see or hear nothing. I lifted the blindfold on one side, keeping her eyes covered, and removed one of her ear plugs.
"Do you know what you must do?" I asked.
She nodded, "Yes sir."
"Do you have any questions?"
She shook her head.
I replaced plug and blindfold and helped her out of the van.
I guided her up the stairs to the old man's room. She was beautiful, with long black hair and dark oriental eyes, now unseen under the black blindfold. Her firm breasts were smaller than Sara's and crowned by dark nipples that just begged to be bitten into. Her pubic hair was long and straight, but did not hide the folds of her sex. I did not untie her hands until we reached the bedroom. Once there I released them only to tie them in front of her.
I led her to the bed where I saw the white tarp with which Sara had covered the bottom of the bed. Her husband's scrawny legs lay on top of it, as did the bottom part of his body.
He saw us arrive and opened his emaciated thighs. His cock and balls sat between them. His pubic bone, hairless from the chemo, jutted out of his body like a ship's prow.
I helped the oriental whore kneel on the bed and guided her head and hands to his package. She felt his genitals with her hands and began her work, taking his cock and pushing the foreskin back with her lips.
"Thank you for doing this for us," he rasped.
"It's nothing," I said.
.... There is more of this story ...