Come as You Go
Chapter 1

Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Fa/Fa, Consensual, Lesbian, Heterosexual, Fiction, Incest, Mother, Son, BDSM, Snuff, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Fisting, Water Sports, Cream Pie, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Caution, Violent,

Desc: Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Guillotine lover Melissa was the first customer for EXITS new service. Come As You Go(tm) guaranteed an orgasm with every Exit. She invited family and former lovers to help.

The client's physical appearance certainly was promising. While she was well over a century old, by choice she was an attractive, vivacious redhead with a firm, healthy late teen-age face and body, and had a sparkle in her eye that belied her chronological age.

But, the man from EXITS reminded himself, her interests must intersect suitably with the new Come As You Go service EXITS was introducing.

That she was here to schedule her Exit wasn't an issue. That was a given. The issue was how she wanted to Exit, and would she be interested in the new service.

"Before we go into details, Melissa, are you aware of the new "Come As You Go" service we are introducing?" he asked.

"Yes, I've seen the adverts. That's why I'm here. It excites me, but I'm not sure I understand how it works."

"It's a patented technology which we feel offers a more fulfilling experience by closely tailoring your Exit to your deepest fantasies."

He drew a deep breath and launched into his spiel.

"As I'm sure you know, our traditional service creates a scenario leading up to Exit based on your stated wishes -- sets and props, even a simple script. Take, for example, our Reign of Terror scenario."

The vid wall behind him lit up to show a recording of one of their most popular Exits, a period Parisian street scene. A young woman in period costume was led up to a guillotine, rudely stripped naked, bent over the bascule. Her neck secured in the lunette she was fucked from behind and beheaded in a spray of blood during her orgasm.

"In our new Come As You Go service, we look more deeply into your fantasies, even into the depth of your psyche, to give you a peak experience. We begin by using our patented sensor technology to gather a multi-faceted sensory/psycho/physiological/emotional recording of your fantasy Exit, right up to and including the exact state you want to be in so it can be recreated when you do make your Exit.

"During actual implementation of your Exit, our patented, highly sophisticated sensor web tracks your sensory/psycho/physiological/emotional state, or SPPES, and executes the termination when you attain that desired state. Put simply, if you want to die during an orgasm we guarantee you'll Come As You Go, at the level of pleasure you desire."

While he talked a quick series of vignettes had showed scenes of both men and women Exiting at the peak of sexual pleasure, using a number of different Exit methods. Running below the images were multiple graphs like an old IKG, the waving lines tracking blood pressure, pulse and a number of other physiological functions.

In one a man was shot in the back of the head as he was fucking a lovely woman. In another a man and a woman Exited simultaneously as they engaged in coitus, a skilled executioner decapitating them both with a single sweep of his sword.

In every case the Exit came as the graphs peaked. The total display was obviously computer generated using avatars, and not very good ones at that.

That was bad enough, but he hated the script the PR people had given him, and did his best to make it sound less stilted. While the computer generated audio-visual presentations for the new service were no more than adequate at least that would be remedied when they'd recorded some real Come As You Go scenarios. So far the system had been tested only with live actors, halting short of the actual Exit. The script plain sucked, and he did his best to smooth it out without getting in trouble.

"While the development process is a bit more time consuming, requiring a number of biometric measurements it is not unpleasant and quite straightforward. After you tell us what you want, what fantasy you might have that you'd like fulfilled, we guide you in visualizing the entire process while recording every facet of your SPPES so we can match your Exit experience to your fantasy with 99.999% accuracy.

"Simply put, in a suitably quiet, private setting, we invite you to fantasize and masturbate or, if you prefer, actually interact with a partner of your choice as if this were to be your actual Exit, while recording your SPPES parameters. When you reach point at which you want to Exit you mark it through nothing more than a vocalization or the push of a button.

"Then, at the time of your actual Exit the same sensor web tracks your SPPES and when your biometrics reach the point you've marked the program terminates you. The entire process, both the preparatory recording and the final Exit process are neither invasive or distracting, since the sensors don't require any physical contact."

On the screen an avatar was masturbating furiously until she arched in orgasm, at which point her head exploded in a spray of computer generated gore. It was a bit more graphic than he liked, but the nerds who had developed the display insisted it was what the public loved.

"Orgasm," Melissa breathed excitedly, "definitely orgasm. I want to die at the peak of the greatest possible orgasm."

Virtually every Exit he had administered since Exits had opened operations had contained a strong erotic element, which was why he had urged development of this new service. He found the glitter in the client's green eyes and the flush on her face most encouraging, and arousing.

"Oh, and privacy during the preparation process won't be necessary," the client went on, almost panting. "I'm quite comfortable displaying my sexuality. Would you like to start recording me now?"

"In time. That will be phase two. This interview is phase one of our four stage process. The recording process requires a more controlled environment than this office, using our newly patented Come As You Go technology."

"Oh, of course, how silly of me."

"Also, since human responses are variable, the recording process may require several repetitions to attain a statistically viable result.

"As I said, that's phase two. Phase three, which runs concurrently with phase two, essentially duplicates our standard process, where we work with you to create the physical scenario you desire, sets and props, provisions for an audience and participants if desired..."

"An audience, definitely, and participants -- my friends, as many past lovers as I can locate," she assured him eagerly. "I have a list..."

Her enthusiasm was charmingly in character with her youthful appearance. "We can work out details later. Right now I just want you to understand the procedure."

"Of course, I'm sorry," she apologized. "I guess I'm just a bit eager. Please, go on."

She was looking better and better as a candidate for the new service. His major concern had been finding people with a willingness to "rehearse" their Exit during Phase Two.

"Phase four is the Exit process itself," he explained. "Once it begins the computer is in control of everything and no input from you is required. Using the same patented sensors we employed in Phase Two the computer tracks your SPPES and adjusts the program accordingly, in real time, until you reach your peak. The instant you reach the optimum SPPES..."

"When I come, I die," she interrupted excitedly. The way she breathed that last word made his hair prickle.

"You die," he agreed, catching her flicker of excitement as he said it. The gleam in her eye was almost enough to make him repeat it.

"Can I interrupt or discontinue the scenario if I decide I'm not ready to die?"

"Yes, but by default, the program is set to proceed to conclusion. An escape option can be programmed in, to be activated by a safe word or action. However, you would be liable for the costs incurred to that point, plus a penalty for lost future revenues."

"Future revenues?"

She would pick up on that phrase! he reflected wryly.

"By its very nature, our newly patented process is expensive, involving as it does recording everything in full, multi-sensory mode using the patented technology we've developed. An important revenue stream which will allow us to keep our rates low, is telecast re-runs of recorded Exits. Our contract gives us ownership of all rights, present and future, to your Exit, should you agree to any public display. Even one participant or outside witness at your Exit constitutes a public display, and you have said you want an audience.

"I probably shouldn't tell you this," he went on, "but, in your case, given your perceptible youth, vivacity and beauty, the revenues from your Exit are potentially substantial."

She laughed nervously. "Revenues I shall not live to enjoy."

Her found her forthrightness truly charming. "Just so. However, sharing of these rights is negotiable, should you like to bequeath a portion to someone, descendants, for example."

She nibbled on her bottom lip -- a delectably full bottom lip. She was visibly aroused simply from discussing the process -- respiration was accelerated, beads of sweat on her upper lip, flushing of her cheeks, her nipples prominent beneath the fashionably sheer top she wore. "Suppose -- uh -- does the process have to conclude with my first orgasm, or can it occur after, say, several orgasms?"

"It is quite flexible, actually. The process can be programmed to execute at a single orgasm, after a specific number of orgasms, as detected by our sensors, or at a random orgasm count, regardless of intensity. It can also be when your orgasm reaches or exceeds a given intensity as determined by our sensors, or any combination of those parameters. For example, after the orgasms exceed a certain level a certain number of times, or even a random number of times, the program will terminate. There is a reasonable time limit, of course. It will definitely terminate sometime before that runs out."

"Oh, I like those last options. I'd never know which orgasm would be the one to kill me." She was leaning forward in her chair with excitement. "I'd approach each orgasm thinking this one could be it."

She was practically panting.


"Yes! That's what want! I want the uncertainty, the steadily increasing tension that the next one might be the one where I die."

He liked that she accepted that word so he didn't need to pussy-foot around it. That triggered another thought. "You're afraid of dying."

She looked surprised. "Aren't all your clients afraid of dying?"

"Oh my, no. Many of them just want to get the process over with in an interesting way. They're bored with life. Often they like to plan and enjoy a theme party before they Exit, but they're not afraid to die."

He thought a moment, reviewing past Exits. "Well, actually, that's not quite accurate. Many are in a state of denial that this really is the end. They're just planning a new, unique adventure at the end of what has become an interminable life. At the moment of execution they may feel a sudden flash of anxiety, but that's all.

"Of course," he added pensively, "we have no way of knowing what is actually on their minds at the moment they die."

She giggled tensely. "No complaints from dissatisfied customers?"

He laughed with her. "Not one."

She rushed on. "Well, I find the idea of dying terrifying. Barring an accident I could live forever. I'm immortal, of course, which only makes me appreciate my life more. The idea of losing it scares me -- uh -- to death, so to speak. It's the fear that tantalizes me, arouses me. I'm an adrenalin junky. I've tried any number of risky activities, usually incorporating and erotic element, just for the thrill. I've also found that fear heightens my orgasmic pleasure. The greater the fear the greater the orgasm.

"I recently made love at the top of Half Dome, that strange stone mountain in Yosemite with a vertical drop on one side. I made my lover promise to throw me to my death as I came. After holding off my orgasm off for as long as I could I came like a banshee. He flexed his arms as if to throw me off, which only sent my orgasm even higher, but then broke his promise." She sighed. "He said he couldn't bear to part with me, and that the promise had been coerced. I was so pissed I almost kicked him over the edge."

She seemed disappointed, then went on. "I want to be in a situation where I know it could happen at any time -- as I'm coming, that is -- that it WILL happen, that at some point I definitely will die. I want to experience that terror leading up to every orgasm, the knowledge that each one might be my last. If possible want to die at the peak of my greatest orgasm ever."

He found himself aroused, and eager to help her out. Her youth and vivacity, however medical science attained it, made her an ideal candidate for the first demonstration of Exits' new, patented, Come As You Go process. She would indeed come, and go.

He also foresaw excellent profit opportunities. He hated to be so crass, but with the arrival of so many competing services in the Exits industry, along with do-it-yourselfers and freelancers who often operated with no more overhead than a rope, gun or knife, competition had become cut-throat. This new value added Come As You Go service could provide a decisive competitive advantage, at least until someone could get around the patents. But then, R&D had some interesting projects in the works to advance the technology.

"We will be honored to provide that experience. Now, let's get down to some details, shall we? Let's start with how you want to die and work our way backwards from there. All our equipment is portable, so we could even go on location to replicate your Half Dome scenario, assuming the appropriate permissions can be obtained."

"Half Dome was nice, the thought of that long fall," she answered cheerily, her eyes sparkling, "but what if it didn't kill me? What if I just wound up paralyzed or something. I think decapitation. I like the sound of the word, and the guillotine gives me a rush."

"Guillotine it is," he said, pleased, making a note in her file. That marvelous machine was highly visual, making scenarios using it a best seller with voyeurs. Perhaps they could give her a reduced rate for the service in anticipation of future revenues. He'd have to talk to the bean counters and legal about that.

As they worked together to refine her scenario they both became more aroused. The thought of her strapped to the guillotine as she was fucked to death was incredibly exciting. When the final scenario was locked in, leaving them both unbelievably aroused, he was delighted to discover that her body was, indeed, as fit, vital, and responsive as he'd hoped. At the moment of their mutual coming, there on the carpeted floor of his office, right against the floor to ceiling windows, so she could see the precipitous drop outside, he whispered to her, "you will die, you know."

He felt her orgasm surge, her cunt clutching at his jetting cock, confirming her psychological trigger and just how eager she was to enjoy this program.

Two months later, backstage at the theater rented for the purpose, Melissa's excitement at her imminent death was only greater.

"Is it time yet?" she asked yet again.

"Not quite." She reminded him of his children on a trip he'd taken with them when they were quite young. "There's some discussion as to whether it is one orgasm per participant, or if someone can give you multiple orgasms, which we know you are quite capable of. The multiple orgasms option seems to be favored, with a time limit."

"Oh God!" Melissa was almost dancing with excitement. She was nude beneath a soft, flowing, virginal white, ankle length robe, her lovely breasts jiggling, her fully erect nipples quite prominent beneath the light, sheer fabric. "Oh God! Am I really going to die?"

"Indeed you are," the man of Exits assured her. "As you requested, once it begins there is no turning back."

"I've never been so wet before! I feel like I'm going to piss myself right here."

"I thought you wanted to save that for later during the process," he noted dryly.

She nodded, knotting her hands at her crotch like a child struggling to hold it until she reached the toilet. Unable to bear it any longer, she made a dash for the bathroom.

No matter. He knew she'd probably piss again before the program ended. She'd certainly piss when it did end.

The setup was simple, designed to maximize both her experience and the voyeuristic thrills of an audience, both live and via telecast.

Wagering as to which orgasm would be THE ONE was heavy.

Just as she returned from the bathroom there was a soft chime and the house lights began to dim. She visibly paled and he had to steady her for a moment. She suddenly threw her arms around him and gave him a powerful hug and a long, passionate kiss. He embraced her lissome body, painfully aware he feeling her against him for the last time.

"Thank you," she whispered hotly, her tongue giving his ear a teasing flick. "Good bye."

"Good bye." He felt a pang at the thought of losing of her.

I was so excited. My heart was racing as I stepped out on what seemed an empty stage.

I knew better. Upstage, lurking in the dark, behind a scrim, was my assassin.

The house lights were down, so I couldn't see the audience, and for a moment the room was so quiet that I had the feeling the entire audience was holding its breath. Then there was a polite wave of applause as the spotlight came up on me in my oh-so sheer robe, and I could see ghostly faces. As I moved the breeze of my walk molded the light fabric to my breasts, to my turgid nipples, the trim plane of my belly, the graceful curve of my thighs, the robe opening to reveal a flash of leg with every step. Cool air toyed with my aroused pussy.

Last night, as I'd had my lovely, gently curling, shoulder length red hair cut, it suddenly occurred to me that it was for the last time, that I'd never again hear the hiss of the shears as they cut each strand.

I'd heard the old wives tale that hair continues to grow after you die. If it does I'll never know it.

Are there any "old wives" left today?

I deliberately had it cut it short so my neck was bared. I also made sure Henri left it long enough for someone to hold my head high for all to see. Would my beautiful green eyes be open? I hoped so. I hoped I'd be smiling.

Then this morning the thoughts came in quick succession. I'd bathed, savoring the feel of my satin skin, the excited nubbins of my tits under my palms, the feel of my soapy hands on my flesh, knowing it was the last time.

When I'd carefully brushed my hair it was for the last time, so I did it slowly and sensuously, enjoying the gentle tug of the brush, like a lover's fingers.

I'd shaved my armpits, my legs, and my pussy, for the last time. Oh, I know I'm a bit of a Luddite, but I've always enjoyed the sensuous feel of removing it or, even better, having a lover remove it, preferably using an actual blade razor rather than one of the modern ultrasonic depilators.

I'd brushed my teeth, for the last time -- wouldn't want my last breath to be offensive.

Now, as I moved, I couldn't help thinking that one of these next steps would be my very last step. I was intensely aware of every move I made, every sensation, the touch of the air on my face, the scent of the theater, sweat and dust, even the breathing of the audience, all of them here to see me die, some for the chance to kill me!

Over my many years I've studied many things, among them history. Once, long ago, a man named Samuel Johnson had said, "Depend upon it, sir, when a man knows he is to be hanged in a fortnight, it concentrates his mind wonderfully."

Indeed it does.

Another light began to come up, casting a looming shadow of the instrument that was to slay me on the scrim, and I heard a sharp intake of breath from the audience.

Then the scrim itself rose slowly out of sight, and the stage lights came up, exposing the harsh angles and lines of my murderer; the bench I would lie on, the tower that would guide the steel blade down to cut my head off, the basket that would catch it.

My guillotine.

The gasp became a murmur.

It would decapitate me. I loved that term, embraced it.

My mouth dry, my palms sweating, I walked over to it, the stage lights full up now. I knew the shape of my body could be seen through the sheer robe.

The dark wood was cool to my touch, smooth. I ran my hand down one of the sturdy columns, touched the basket that would accept my head. Then I reached out to touch the chill steel blade, for now resting where my neck would feel the cold kiss of its keen edge. It was razor sharp, shining surgical steel. The top edge was bolted to a grim, black cast iron weight called a mouton. The combination was so heavy there had to be springs and shock absorbers at the bottom of the frame to absorb the impact.

Perverse curiosity had driven me to research the anatomy of my neck, and the machine that would hack it apart.

The combined weight of the blade and mouton was about 40 kilos.

The drop of more than four meters would take about 1/70th of a second.

The blade would hardly be slowed by passing through the paltry resistance offered by my slender neck, my skin, my esophagus, my trachea, my carotid arteries and jugular veins, the muscles and tendons and sinews, my spinal cord. My spine.

My neck would be severed in 2/100ths of a second.

There will be a lot of blood, pumped out by my still beating heart.

In the days of the French Terror they put a shield in place for privacy and to deflect the spray, but I'd vetoed that. Let the audience see, I'd said. Let them all see me die. Maybe the front row would even get spattered with my blood.

I'm told the bidding for my head has been quite lively. It is to be preserved. How strange to think of winding up as a souvenir on shelf.

My body, my lovely, eternally youthful body, will be recycled.

My hands trembling, I reached for a dangling rope, took a turn around one palm and pulled, hard, waking the blade out of its slumber. The block and tackle making it possible for me to lift it's mass creaked. After raising the blade a short distance I took a turn of the rope around a cleat to hold it. Remembering my audience, I carefully stepped to one side so they could see me test its sharpness, jerking my hand away when it sliced my finger.

My wince was real. It hurt!

Turning to face the audience, I held my hand up so they could see the blood. Then I sucked my finger like a kid with an ouchie before I again reached for the rope. The cut on my finger still bled and burned as I pulled, leaving carmine stains as I raised the mouton with its angled, slicing blade. It rose with barely a whisper. Would its fall be as silent, I wondered?

When it reached the top I gave a final, hard pull. The rattle and clink of the release mechanism taking hold was picked up by a microphone, carried throughout the theater, across the airwaves.

It was the sound of me arming the device that would snuff out my life forever. Quite deliberately, I did it all by myself, for myself, knowing that every move I made brought me that much closer to my death.

Letting the rope dangle I ran my hand down it, making sure it wouldn't accidentally snag on anything and impede the drop.

Turning back toward the audience I eased the sheer robe back off my shoulders, letting it drift to the stage behind me -- never to be worn by me again --revealing my nude body, relishing the eyes upon me. Until now the cover-up had only hinted at what was beneath it. Now I was naked, totally exposed, save for my delicate sandals.

After all, I didn't want everyone to see dirty feet as I lay there, getting fucked and waiting to die.

I was rewarded by a sigh from my watchers. My naked breasts rose and fell with every excited breath. They were firm, well shaped, the areolas swollen conical with excitement, the nipples stiff. My torso was fit and trim, my hips well proportioned, my legs graceful. I wasn't very tall -- and would soon be even shorter. I deliberately turned around, slowly, giving them a view of me from every angle. When my back was to them I gave my nicely rounded, firm, creamy ass a teasing wiggle. As I completed the turn I was wracked by one of those delicious, sensuous "I'm going to get fucked" shivers, and I let them all see it.

Boy, was I going to get fucked! I was going to get fucked to death! I got goose bumps and rubbed my arms as I turned toward the line waiting at the bottom of the steps for the chance to fuck me to death -- former lovers, friends, even an enemy or two acquired during my long life. I wondered which of them hoped to be fucking me when the ax fell.

I looked anxiously for two particular faces, but didn't see them and felt a pang. I'd hoped so much they'd be here, but knew they were far away and might not be able to make it.

Unable to resist the urge to preen, I let my hands stroke my torso, cupping my breasts, my fingers toying with my distended, sensitive nipples, sending delicious shocks through me. Then I slipped them down my body, touching my navel, then lower, to finger my wet and ready pussy, my twat tingling like it was electrified.

The backdrop moved forward from the upstage darkness with a soft, ominous rumble. Angular and faceted, it would cup the guillotine within its mirrored surfaces. The mirrors forming it were flat so they wouldn't distort my reflection. I'd made sure my ravishment death would be seen from every angle, even directly overhead. Microphones would catch every orgasmic cry, every whisper and gasp, every slurp and squish, everything, right down to the stroke of the blade and the sound of my head landing in the basket.

Of course there were cameras recording and broadcasting from every angle, too. Online subscribers could watch live on 3D flat screen or a holographic display. For those with the equipment and resources they could even enjoy a full sensory feed to their implants from the web of sensors recording my state. However, to do so they had to have signed a waiver relieving Exits of any liability should the experience be so intense they died along with me.

But time was passing, and I didn't want to delay things, so I turned back toward the guillotine. The padded bench on which I'd recline was cool beneath my naked ass as I boosted myself up on to it, facing the audience, my feet dangling.

I'd never feel the ground or a floor beneath my feet again.

I toed off my delicate sandals for the last time, letting them fall to the stage with soft slaps.

I'd never wear anything again. I would leave the world as naked as the day I'd entered it.

I enjoyed another delicious shiver.

Reaching down to a small, out of the way shelf, I picked up an economy sized container of lubricant -- scented with lily of the valley, my favorite when I was a child. Lifting my left leg to the bench to open my thighs and expose my cunt I began by spreading it first on the insides of my thighs and low on my tummy, then on my outer labia, making sure the audience and the cameras were getting a good view.

I didn't want chafing to spoil my fun, however long it lasted.

Setting the lubricant within easy reach, I used fingers and thumb of my left hand to spread my outer lips, exposing the inner pink heart of my sex. Naturally I wanted to make sure my inner passage was suitably slippery. I know a camera zoomed in to show my intimate details.

I spread the slick stuff all over my already slippery inner petals, on the pearl of my clit, as far into my vagina as I could reach, loving the sensation of my fingers on my flesh. I teased my clit and enjoyed the first of what I hoped would be many orgasms to come, telling myself that this one didn't count.

The computer controlling whatever remained of my life wouldn't start counting until I was locked into the guillotine.

I made no attempt to hide my coming, giving voice to my pleasure. My orgasm over, I rocked back farther on my butt and spread both my legs wide, exposing my asshole. Again I greased up the outside first, massaging my buttocks lovingly, taking the opportunity to pull them apart, impishly flexing my anus to make it wink at the audience.

I made sure the audience could see how much I enjoyed playing with my back door, starting with one finger of cold goo, painting it along the floor of my crack from back to front, finishing at the sensitive ridge between my cunt and my anus. Then, taking another dip in the jar, I circled the drain, so to speak. Another dip and I was slowly working my longest finger into the pucker of my rosebud, scratching that tight gate open, making it clench and unclench joyously before probing deeper into my rectum, wiggling it around in that dark passage, as deep as I could get.

Drawing out again, adding more lubricant, I used the middle two fingers next, twisting my hand around, stretching my sphincter, pushing deep into the hot, velvety glove of my rectum. I moaned when I slipped my thumb deep into my cunt so I could pinch the thin barrier separating my sewer from my playground.

I heard an answering moan from the audience. Some of them were really getting into this display. Just to give them a sick thrill I made a show of sucking my fingers clean. Enema or not, my fingers had an earthy scent, and tasted a little bitter. I got another dirty little thrill just from that.

My preparations concluded I put the container away until it might be needed again.

Then I hesitated. I was very near the point of no return. Once I was locked in under the blade I was committed.

Shit I was scared! For a minute, maybe more, I just closed my eyes, my legs still spread wide for the enjoyment of my audience, gently stroking my pussy, savoring the sheer terror at what I was about to do.

I was going to get fucked, and fucked, and fucked, until I died.

Oh God! What was I doing?

A nervous cough from someone out in the gathering brought me out of my reverie.

I couldn't disappoint them now, could I?

Drawing a deep breath, I swiveled around on my ass, and stretched out on my back, my legs trailing off the end of the short bench I lay on, making my back arch, offering my breasts and tummy to the gods above.

That bench is called a bascule, in case you care, and only ran from my shoulders to just above my butt. You'll understand why in a minute.

My neck fitted neatly into the lower half of the lunette -- the part of the guillotine that will surround my throat and hold me in place for the final cut. Like "bascule" and "mouton" it's an old French word, just as the name "guillotine" came from its advocate, Joseph Ignace Guillotin.

Incidentally, he was not the inventor, and, despite the tales, he did not lose his life to it. That was another "Guillotin," which explains the confusion.

And yes, I confess, I am delaying the moment of truth here.

I was on my back so I'd be available to my lovers and able to watch my doom coming. The headrest was very short so my head would tumble into the basket when my neck was cut.

The more I thought about it the hornier I got. I squirmed a little, getting comfortable, then lifted and spread my legs to fit my feet and ankles into the stirrups that had been added to the guillotine. Lifting my head, I checked the lewd display of my cunt and asshole in the mirror at my feet, making sure that both holes were accessible, the reason for the short bascule.

My anus glistened with the lubricant I'd so carefully applied, my pussy lips were flushed and aroused. I was more than ready to take on my admirers.

One of whom would kill me.

Lowering my head back to the headrest, I reached for the top half of the lunette. Normally the lunette was two slabs of wood, top and bottom, with copper lined half-moons carved out to fit around the neck. The top half slid down rails on the columns guiding the blade to latch to the bottom half.

In my case we'd redesigned the lunette. It was a shining ring, big enough to go around my neck, cut in half. The bottom half already cradled the back of my neck. Hinged to one end of it, the top would swing over to complete the circle. When I shut it the ends would locked together.

I'd designed it so that my fuckers could see my face, and I theirs. I wanted to be able to kiss them good bye, if they chose. They had been warned not to try that during my orgasm. Our coitus interrupted by the blade it might be their last kiss and they'd find their head in the basket with mine.

I really didn't want that. After all, this was MY Exit!

My breasts lifting as a drew a deep breath, I slowly swung the second half of the lunette over my throat. This was the ultimate point of no return. Once the lunette locked it could not be released, and the computer started. My fate would be sealed.

I hesitated an instant, drew another deep breath, audible to the crowd. My nipples were so hard they hurt, my tummy muscles rippled nervously, my cunt squeezed out a wave of juice, and I almost peed.

Then I quite deliberately snapped the lunette firmly shut, feeling the latch take hold, the click amplified by the microphones. There were a few gasps, mine among them. The audience knew there was no going back. I knew I was going to die.

The computer gently closed padded clamps around my ankles, holding me spread open and accessible. My arms were free to toy with my pussy or to embrace and encourage my lovers/killers. I was unconfined from neck to knees so I could respond to their thrusts.

I cupped my naked breasts, thumbs and fingers giving my nipples a hard tug, a twist. Involuntarily my body flexed, testing my limits. A monitor above me showed me as others saw me on their screens. I was spread like a whore, wide open and ready to accept what was to come. That view would switch as the computer directed the telecast of the remainder of my life. With mechanical dispassion, at some point during one of my orgasms, it would release the blade above me. I'd watch it come down, and down, and down...

I was fingering my pussy and I came right then, lying there, before anyone had even touched me. Oh God it felt good! I cupped my breasts again, feeling their warmth and firmness, pinched and rolled my nipples to feel the their electric tingle, twisting my head as much as the lunette allowed.

I was in a terminally erotic state. I was hornier than I had ever been before in my long but soon to be shortened life.

The view in the monitor switched to show the first of my lovers crossing the stage toward me. It was my first and only husband. The man behind him, taking his place by the basket that would catch my head, was the lover that had succeeded him.

And so it began.

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