9 - Stacy’s bad idea

But was it?

Becky had died in precisely the way Stacy had always fantasized about, and Stacy was still alive. She wasn't about to get herself killed on purpose, but she wanted to feel what her daughter had. She wanted to feel even closer to Becky than she already was, with their bare, wet pussies pressed together. She had to feel the pain of the guillotine ... without letting it kill her.

Shimmying forward on Becky's body, she set the girl's head back on the table, then lifted the guillotine's blade in both hands. It was fairly heavy, definitely easier to hold up with a pulley and rope. But she managed it. She shifted it into one hand, then raised the lunette with the other, awkwardly slipped her own neck into the crescent, and barely managed to set the blade down gently on the back of her neck. The blade kissed her flesh, and then bit. She moaned, legs kicking against the table, chest heaving against Becky's.

"Fuck ... this might have been a bad idea ..."

Bad idea, yes. Very hot, also yes. Stacy could see droplets of her own blood falling into the basket, onto the cover of that spicy book Becky had somehow got a hold of. Moaning through her closed lips, she wrapped her arms around Becky's soft, helpless figure and hugged her tight. She managed to wrap both of her legs around one of Becky's and began to grind. The thrill made her wet, but humping her daughter's wet thigh was so arousing in itself that it made her move faster, despite the pain in her neck. That pain was good. It was a fraction of what Becky must have felt, just the tip of the sharp metal that had turned Becky from a beautiful young lady into a quivering, pretty pile of meat. It was pain and pleasure, life and death, and she was on the precipice of it all, a beautiful middle ground with Becky's soft young body as a mattress.

As she felt her orgasm begin to bubble again, she also heard a long, wooden groan from high above. It was probably just the wind against the barn, and she couldn't bring herself to stop anyway. She grinded harder, faster, against Becky's thigh, coaxing her juices out, moaning the dead girl's name over and over.

The barn creaked again. There was a pop somewhere above, from the loft. Stacy knew it would be smart to check, to lift the blade and get herself out of this incredibly precarious position.
But fuck, was she horny. Way, way too horny to care about little things that weren't this incestuous, necrophilic orgasm she was about to have on her dead daughter's sexy sweat-slicked carcass.

Unbidden, a memory came to her like a sudden mental invasion.

She was in her early twenties again, standing with her ex-husband and their two young children. There was a guillotine in the barn, freshly finished by that beautiful young man whose muscular arms were still speckled with sweat from sanding and polishing the device. It was a replica built for no other reason than to help Ben enjoy his history class more, and what an imposing thing it was. Staring up at the blade, Stacy felt both horrified and oddly comforted that it was her husband who could not only imagine such a powerful device of death, but build one with his own hands.

"What's it do?" a young Becky asked.

"It chops people's heads off, of course!"

"That's scary!" Becky said, hiding behind her mom.

"It's a very special guillotine, Rebecca. It only chops the heads off the wicked and the guilty. Nobody here has anything to worry about!"

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