La Petite Mort
by JayFriday
Copyright© 2025 by JayFriday
Supernatural Sex Story: Death doesn't work exactly the way you'd think. And La Petit Mort -- a specialist Death -- is having one of the more remarkable days of her career. Note on tags: numerous mentions of death throughout the story. I've tagged it as snuff to be safe, but don't think the death itself is especially fetishized. I'd primarily consider this a paranormal/supernatural/magic story, so I've put it in the Supernatural genre -- hopefully others agree!
Caution: This Supernatural Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Coercion Consensual NonConsensual Reluctant Heterosexual Fiction Paranormal Magic FemaleDom Snuff Tit-Fucking Big Breasts .
Mythology mostly gets the personage of Death all wrong.
Whatever the name -- the Grim Reaper, Charon, Jeoseungsaja, Gwyn ap Nudd, Yama Rāja -- Death is not a psychopomp, some bureaucrat who shows up after you die to escort you to the afterlife.
I mean, why would Death do that?
You’re dead. All the work’s done at that point.
No, the journey to the afterlife happens as you die. That is the journey. That’s when you need a guide the most. Someone -- or something -- to actually shepherd you out of one life and into the next.
That’s what the myths miss: the Charon figure does the actual killing.
Humans, animals, the forces of the universe -- none of them can take a life.
Only Deaths can.
That’s what makes them Deaths. The defining feature.
That’s right -- Deaths.
Because there are different Deaths. Most mythology misses this point, too.
Deaths are all specialists, to one degree or another, but some of them handle a high-enough case volume that calling them a specialist would be stretching the definition. Drowning. Old age. Gun violence.
Common Deaths, you might call them.
But there are edge cases. Oddities that demand a particular approach. Situations that call for a true specialist, a master artisan, to craft unique endings suited to a specific moment.
And deaths by orgasm are especially rare, so La Petite Mort was a specialist among specialists.
She presented many different ways. Big and bold. Small and quiet. Male and female.
Currently, though, she was wearing her favorite presentation -- perhaps because it fit her name, or perhaps for other reasons.
She was a young woman, exotic-looking. Different; from someplace else. Unusual. Rare to see.
Just like La Petite Mort.
Short, with dark hair. A shockingly gorgeous face; a curvaceous, sexy little body, currently clad in a little black dress.
The very picture of deadly, beautiful pleasure in a small package.
Just like ... well, you get the idea.
Currently, in addition to the pretty little dress, her favorite form was also wearing a pretty little frown.
Because one of the most peculiar evenings in La Petite Mort’s long existence was beginning with a jurisdictional dispute.
A couple was fucking enthusiastically on the hotel room bed in front of her. The woman -- in her thirties, with long blonde hair almost down to her waist, was riding a much older man; riding him rather athletically, as it happened.
La Petite Mort was quite impressed. No wonder she’d showed up. This lady had some real talent. As she watched, the woman arched her back, bouncing even more enthusiastically. “Fuck yeah, babe, I love riding your cock...”
The man on the bed groaned an acknowledgement. He had to be in his seventies. Maybe even in his eighties. Goodness.
La Petite Mort watched them for a moment, enjoying the way the woman was working his body. It wouldn’t be long now.
But her contemplation of their lovemaking was interrupted by a plaintive, wheedling voice.
“No. Absolutely not. This one’s mine.”
La Petite Mort sighed, turning to the other personage here. Who had just spoken, again, though she’d been doing her best to ignore him. The couple were blissfully oblivious; they couldn’t perceive the conversation at all.
“You know the rules, CA,” La Petite Mort said, flatly. She wished that she couldn’t perceive his words, either. That would be really nice right now.
“The guy’s been living like shit, LPM. He never exercises, too many fatty foods, he’s old as hell, and he’s not taking his blood pressure meds. The underlying cause is clear, okay? And by clear, I mean it’s me. I’m the cause. Just because the ol’ ticker gives out at one particular moment, you get him? Come on. He’s mine.”
Cardiac Arrest was wearing one of his favorite presentations: a moderately overweight American man, in a rumpled brown suit, with a cheeseburger in one hand.
Which he was currently using to gesture at La Petite Mort for emphasis.
Even as he protested, she could hear the frustration in his voice. He was aware of the rules just like she was. They could both see how this was going to go.
More specialized Deaths always had the right-of-way.
“Cardiac. Arrest.” She said his full name, slowly.
Everything La Petite Mort said had a sensual finality to it, obviously. But when she wanted to dial it up, she could really dial it up.
As a result, his name rolled off her tongue like the opening of a salacious obituary read aloud. One about two lovers who died in each other’s arms, maybe.
“Yeah, yeah, okay, okay, okay,” he said the words hastily. “It’s cool, don’t be like that. No need to take that tone. He’s yours, he’s yours.”
Satisfied, she turned to the bed, watching the couple again.
The mood was only slightly spoiled by Cardiac Arrest in the corner, muttering to himself about bureaucracy.
“Do. You. Mind?” La Petite Mort arched one perfect brow.
“Sorry.” He lapsed into silence.
Although he then proceeded to take a loud, wet bite of his cheeseburger.
He was such an annoying fucker.
But La Petite Mort put him out of mind, because she could tell her moment was nearly here. On the hotel bed, the man’s breathing was ragged, face flushed, his movements getting more erratic. Like his blood was pounding. Heart racing. Pulse fluttering.
Like he was about to lose control.
La Petite Mort could only truly interact with the world when particular conditions were met.
Conditions that were now at hand. The beginning of an end, as it were.
Smoothly, she moved up onto the bed, hiking her dress up slightly. Her body overlapped with the blonde woman’s, seamlessly.
She was riding the man, now, though the blonde woman was still there, riding him too.
But La Petite Mort was in the driver’s seat. It was La Petite Mort, now, who picked up the pace.
La Petite Mort who added a little bucking movement of her hips, to would set the man’s heart racing even faster.
It was La Petite Mort, who tossed her dark hair sensually, and then -- though her voice now sounded suspiciously like the blonde woman’s -- whispered, wanton need in her voice, “Yes, baby, I want to feel you explode, give it to me.”
It was the right thing to say to help set him off like a firecracker. Knowing what to do to set someone off was what made La Petite Mort a specialist in her field.
It was La Petite Mort who then ran her hands over his body, leaning atop him as she rode faster, hips working steadily, hands resting on his chest, pressing down for balance. Directly above his heart, in fact.
This was it; the moment. She could feel the surge in the man, the signs that he was about to lose control, become untethered.
All Deaths represent a loss of control to one degree or another; the body’s weakness, the fallibility of flesh made manifest, as it betrays its owner.
But La Petite Mort was about losing control even more than most Deaths. The pleasure of another soul shepherded across the veil was exquisite to her, the simultaneous ecstasy and loss of life a beautiful and perfect combination.
And then, just before the moment of completion, as she began to pick up speed, preparing to shepherd him over the edge and into the afterlife, something distracted her.
A sudden tugging sensation.
Her attention was called away. Needed elsewhere.
Not just her attention; her very presence was demanded elsewhere.
She resisted, of course. She was working.
But the summons was insistent, inexorable. As inevitable a conclusion as what she was involved in currently.
She had no choice but to heed it. One moment she was there, and the next she was gone. The couple’s lovemaking continued, but it lacked a certain edge that had been present just a moment before.
Cardiac Arrest looked around the room for a moment, registering her absence. “Guess this one’s mine after all?” he mumbled, hopefully, around a mouthful of cheeseburger.
There was no response, just the continued sounds of the couple fucking.
He stood up laboriously, brushed a few crumbs off his suit jacket, and walked over to the bed.
He gave one final look around the room, making sure he wasn’t missing something.
But then he shrugged, and reached a greasy hand towards the man’s chest, with all the pomp and circumstance of a fast food restaurant worker announcing that an order number was up.
La Petite Mort was confined.
She’d been confined before. Many times. By her very nature, she was probably more familiar with restraints and bondage than most Deaths, although Strangulation could’ve given her a run for her money.
But this was a different kind of confinement.
She was in an open field under the stars.
Flickering flames surrounded her, as if parts of the field were on fire. The licking fire formed a complicated, irregular shape, with her at the center. Odd curves in some places, straight lines and angles in others.
She recognized a symbol of power when she saw one. Built to contain her. Even now, she could feel the pressure of it, muting her power, blunting the very force of her will. Binding her more tightly than any ropes ever could.
Her eyes narrowed. Three men stood outside the symbol, wearing hoods and ceremonial robes.
As she regarded them, one of them -- the tallest, as it happened -- cleared his throat and spoke, tentatively. “We have called you, O Death, and spoken the words, sworn the oaths, made the sacrifices.”
The second of the men spoke, slow and careful. “We have called you, O Death, and bound you here, with flame as your prison and the stars as your warden.”
“We have called you, O Death,” intoned the final man, in a deep confident baritone, “and we wish to strike a bargain.”
Her eyes narrowed in the silence that followed his words. “You are fools to summon one of the Deaths.”
“Deaths?” The second man emphasized the s, as if the very concept of plurality was confusing to him.
Oh, great.
They hadn’t specified which Death. Because they didn’t even know their cosmology.
These were novice warlocks, then. She hated when this happened.
“Which Death were you hoping to summon?” She asked the question idly, inspecting their handiwork.
Stars above, check.
Flames below, check.
She paced out the bounds of the fiery symbol that enclosed her, considering the sweeping curves, the dimensions of the angles.
In spite of being novices, they’d formed it all correctly.
Damn them.
“Um ... the Grim Reaper?” It was the first man, the tall, hesitant one.
She laughed, looking at him. “I suppose I answer to that name, yes. Very well. You have called her. You have bound her. Now what will you ask of her?”
All three of them paused and took note, at the sound of her laughter. It had that effect on men -- and on women too, as it happened, though none were present.
And then the second man -- slowly, thoughtfully -- asked, “ ... If you’re the Grim Reaper, where’s your scythe? And don’t you have, y’know, a cowl?”
La Petite Mort had a glint in her eye. “The tools and vestments don’t matter. A scythe. A shepherd’s crook. A gentle touch. One drink too many; one drink too few. A passionate thrust -- with a blade, or with something else. The reaping of souls requires no particular tool; it is an act of will.”
The first man, with a sudden jolt of realization, became aware that he had gotten erect, listening to her. Quite erect. He didn’t think it was visible underneath his loose ceremonial robes, which he was grateful for.
It was an odd response to the presence of Death, to be sure. But there was something especially provocative about the way she said the words passionate thrust.
And she was dressed quite provocatively, too; the way that black dress hugged the curves of her body was absolutely delicious.
The second man was silent, taken aback at her response.
The confident third man, after a moment, said, “We wish to bargain. You will take care of one of our rivals, eliminate him.”
There was a moment of silence as La Petite Mort considered the three of them. And then she favored the first man -- the one whose body was already betraying him -- with a sexy little smile. “Are you sure you want me to take care of him? There’s not something else you’d prefer to bargain me into taking?”
Even muted by the binding, the pressure exerted when La Petite Mort focused her will entirely on one person was immense. Her voice, that smile... everything about her promised a final, ultimate, show-stopping release. The man’s mouth was dry. His cock -- which had been tenting his robes -- was twitching, throbbing now. He could feel himself leaking. But he barely paid it any mind.
Instead, he took a step towards the flames flickering between him and her. He wanted to see that wicked smile on her lips better; wanted to get a closer look at the way that dress hugged her hips, revealing those ample thighs; wanted to inspect the low-cut top, clinging to enticing cleavage...
And then the second and third men came up on either side of him, each of them putting a hand on his shoulder, and the first man’s eyes refocused, as if he was coming out of trance. He looked down, realized how close the flames were, and grimaced, taking a step back.
The third man took a deep breath in, and repeated, “You will take the life of one of our rivals. He has misused his magical gifts; taken our lovers as his own, amassed unearned power, wealth, and riches. Give him the final release. In return, we offer you release.”
La Petite Mort strode over to him, looked him up and down from across the flames. This one had a certainty about him, a steadiness that was adorable.
A completely unwarranted steadiness, in light of the unfortunate wording he had just chosen for their bargain. Poetic, yes, but incredibly vague.
She loved when they made bargains in English. The language just wasn’t well suited to it.
“Very well.” She pursed her lips, looking him up and down, and then his companions, in turn. “My release in exchange for visiting your rival, and giving him release. I agree to your terms.”
The third man nodded, smug and satisfied. The very picture of a man in control. A man who had bound Death and was now bringing it upon his enemy.
“Uh, w-wait a sec...” the second man sounded doubtful. “The way she said release...”
“That’s the way she’s been saying everything,” the third man snapped. “She just talks like that. It’s meant to distract us. Stop thinking with your dick. Get a grip.”
“Yeah,” La Petite Mort echoed. “Get a grip.” She favored the second man with a little pout, as she said it. The look in her eye was enough to make the breath in his throat hitch. The way she said grip indicated precisely what she was thinking about gripping.
The third man was already moving on. “I agree to be bound by the terms of our bargain, O Death. May my soul be forfeit if they go unfulfilled.” He intoned the words and then looked, expectantly, at his colleagues.
La Petite Mort eyed them with interest as well. All three of them had summoned her; all three had to say it.
The first man -- whose eyes hadn’t left her body since she’d appeared -- dutifully repeated the words. “I agree to be bound by the terms of our bargain, O Death. May my soul be forfeit if they go unfulfilled.”
The second man looked extremely reluctant, but eventually complied, saying the words as well.
Funny, how sometimes the ones who seem dumbest sometimes have the most sense.
She’d save him for last, she decided, grim satisfaction settling over her as he finished repeating the words.
The third man -- the confident one, who seemed to be the leader -- waved his hand, and the flames flickered and died down. “There. You are free to go. Our side of the bargain is fulfilled. Our rival goes by the name Stardrinker, but his given name is Lawrence Ko...”
The main trailed off, realizing that La Petite Mort had quirked up an eyebrow once he’d started talking.
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