EXTREME FICTION / FANTASY ONLY – 18+ ONLY

This is pure fantasy. All characters are consenting adults.
Contains: graphic consensual snuff, ritual seppuku/hara-kiri, detailed evisceration, autophagy (self-cannibalism), extreme gore, intense pain, organ exposure, blood, bodily fluids and death agony.

If these themes disturb you, please do not read.

Feedback is very welcome – especially on pain realism and anatomical details.

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**The Liberation of the Spirit** – Teil 1

## A Tuesday in November

The sky above the city was a single, impenetrable blanket of lead that had already completely swallowed the last light of the late afternoon. An icy drizzle lashed against the dirty windows of the anonymous apartment blocks, where, layer upon layer, the misery of overpopulation piled up.

The air smelled of wet asphalt, burnt plastic, and the omnipresent despair of eight million people fighting for breath and dignity in a space far too cramped. In this dystopian confinement, where society had long been teetering on the brink of its breaking point, peculiar, macabre regulations had taken hold. When the will to live faded, the desire to die could at least be fulfilled efficiently and, in a perverse way, with dignity.

For this purpose, there was the service of the Snuf Officers, officially registered executors of consensual suicides, whose work was based on a simple contract: a signature in exchange for salvation.

At exactly six o’clock, as the last gray shadows faded into deep black, a short, sharp ring sounded at the door of an apartment on the seventh floor of one such concrete block. Inside, there was a strange mixture of clinical cleanliness and tense anticipation.

Monika opened the door, her face a mask of calm determination, behind which an almost euphoric nervousness pulsed. Standing before her was a man in a dark, slightly damp trench coat; his face was expressionless, professional, his eyes taking in the surroundings with the routine of a craftsman entering a new workplace.

“Snufdienst,” he said curtly, without giving his name. Names were irrelevant here; he was the function, they were the clients.

“Come in,” Monika replied in a voice that sounded surprisingly firm, and stepped aside. The agent entered, let his dripping-wet coat slide over a chair provided for that purpose, and followed Monika into the living room.

The room was spartanly furnished but tidy. A bookshelf, crammed with works on East Asian philosophy and history, dominated one wall. Three clean cups were already on the coffee table. Andrea was already sitting on the couch, her hands folded in her lap, and nodded silently to the officer. Her tension was physically palpable, an electric charge in the stuffy air.

“Would you like some coffee?” Monika asked politely, almost normally.

“Gladly,” the official replied and sat down in the offered armchair while Monika disappeared into the small kitchenette. The soft clatter of the coffee maker filled the oppressive silence.

The official used the time to open his briefcase and pull out a thin binder. When Monika returned with the tray, he gratefully accepted the cup, took a sip of the hot, bitter brew, and then laid the papers out on the table in front of him.

“We must take care of the formalities first,” he began; his voice was matter-of-fact, devoid of any emotion. “I need positive identification from each of you, and I’ll confirm once more: you, Monika Schneider, twenty-five years old, and you, Andrea Vogel, twenty-six years old, are jointly and mutually applying to carry out a suicide using the method of traditional Japanese harakiri, also known as seppuku. Is that correct?”

Both women nodded in unison. “Yes,” said Monika. “That is correct.”

Andrea added only a quiet “Yes,” her gaze fixed on the documents.

“I don’t care about the details of your reasons; they’re none of my business,” the official continued as he pulled two copies of the contract from the folder. “The only thing that matters is your free will, documented by your signature. By signing, you agree to the procedure, release me from any liability, and confirm that no external pressure has been exerted on you. The state recognizes this as a legal act of self-determination.”

He slid the papers across the table toward them. Next to them, he placed two blunt ballpoint pens.

Monika took her contract first, skimming the terse, legal sentences in which her own death was reduced to an administrative matter. Then, without hesitation, she signed her name on the marked line. The pen scratched dryly against the paper.

Andrea hesitated for a moment, took a deep breath, and then also let her name flow onto the page. A final gesture.

The official collected the documents, checked the signatures, and nodded with satisfaction. “Everything’s in order. The deed is now legal. We can begin whenever you’re ready.”

He took another sip of coffee. “Before we get to the practical implementation, I must ask about the chosen method for protocol reasons. Various options are available. You specified harakiri. Why exactly this method?”

## The Philosophy of the Gut

Monika leaned back, her face taking on an almost passionate expression. “Because it is the only true one,” she began, her voice taking on a lecturing tone that suited her studies in Sinology.

“In many ancient cultures, especially in East Asia, the belly is considered the seat of the soul, the *Hara*. Not the heart, not the brain. Here, in this fleshy container of skin, fat, and muscle, we don’t just digest food. This is where our life force gathers, where our deepest feelings reside—our shame, our courage. Everything we are happens here.”

She placed a hand flat on her own, still-covered abdomen.

Andrea added, more quietly but just as convincingly: “The idea that our spirit, our essence, is trapped in this dark, warm space of organs and intestines has always fascinated us. Food enters through the mouth, is chewed, swallowed, broken down by acid and enzymes, and becomes part of us. A part of the world becomes our body in the belly. That is magical. And horribly beautiful.”

She looked directly at the officer. “Opening this prison cell means setting the spirit free once and for all. Opening the door for it so it can escape. It is a liberation ceremony.”

Monika continued, her eyes shining with excitement. “And it’s about the truth of materiality. We are flesh. We are blood, bile, digestive juices, and feces. These romantic notions of a soul floating somewhere in nothingness are ridiculous. Our soul *smells*. It is damp and warm and has a texture. We want to see it. We want to touch it.”

She lowered her voice to an intimate whisper. “We even want to taste it before we go. A part of us should be the last taste on our tongue. That is the complete return to ourselves.”

The official listened; his face remained a professional mask, but a barely perceptible twitch in his cheek betrayed that the intensity of her words had not left him unmoved. “I understand,” he said simply. “The aesthetics of autophagy. Unusual, but not unknown in my line of work.”

He set down the empty cup. “How exactly do you envision the process? Where is the procedure to take place?”

Monika jumped to her feet, her movements suddenly energetic, almost frantic. “Here. Right in the middle of the room.”

She grabbed the coffee table by one edge and shoved it aside with a jerky jerk, revealing a clear patch of the dark hardwood floor. “The floor is ideal. Smooth, heavily sealed, easy to wash off.”

She pointed to the bare surface. “This is where we’ll kneel. This is where we’ll open ourselves up.”

She turned back to the official. “I’ve studied the technique. The classic horizontal incision. Starting at the lower left, below the navel, then in one swift motion across to the right, about fifteen to twenty centimeters. At the end of the movement, turn the blade upward for the final slitting effect.”

She spoke like a surgeon describing a routine operation. “You cut through the skin, the subcutaneous fat, and the rectus abdominis muscle. Eventually, the peritoneum—the abdominal lining—ruptures. Then the first loops of intestine spill out. The puncture itself barely bleeds; the blade acts as a tamponade. Only when you cut open does the heavy bleeding begin.”

The official nodded knowingly. “A correct description. It is an extremely painful method. Death does not occur immediately, but from blood loss and shock. It requires immense willpower.”

His eyes scanned the two women, as if he wanted to gauge that willpower in them.

“We have it,” Andrea said in a firm voice. “Our future is nothing but a miserable existence anyway. No jobs, no money, just the endless line for basic food rations. Vegetating away in this concrete cave until we’re forgotten. That’s no life. It’s a slow, undignified decay. We’d rather decay quickly and see something… beautiful in the process. Something true.”

A silent agreement spread through the room. The official stood up. “Then we should begin. Who would like to go first?”

Monika stepped forward. “Me.”

## Monika’s Unveiling

Without another word, Monika began to undress. Her movements were not exhibitionistic, but marked by a ceremonial slowness.

She stood in the center of the cleared square on the parquet floor and unbuttoned her simple cotton shirt. First the top button, then the next, with calm, precise fingers. With every button she undid, she revealed more of herself. First her collarbone, then the base of small, firm breasts whose nipples had already hardened from tension and the cold. Finally, her entire upper body was bare.

She was slender, athletic, with the defined but not muscular figure of a gymnast. Then she undid the drawstring on her sweatpants, slid the waistband over her hips, and let the garment fall into a ring around her ankles, stepping out of it with a light step.

Now she stood completely naked in the cool room air, keeping only her socks on.

Her belly was, as she had described it, a fascinating formation. Two distinct, soft abdominal folds ran across the smooth, pale skin. One ran horizontally just below her navel; another, slightly less pronounced, crossed the navel itself, which sat deep and large like an old silver coin in her center.

It was an unmistakably erotic belly, soft, vulnerable, and yet full of vibrant tension. She took a deep breath, and the folds deepened as her abdominal wall rose.

The officer watching her couldn’t prevent a reaction from stirring in his own pants. A distinct, embarrassing swelling that stretched the fabric of his uniform. Monika noticed it; her gaze briefly drifted downward, and a tiny, triumphant smile tugged at her lips. This was power, even in her complete vulnerability.

Instead of standing up, Monika crouched down and then slowly lowered herself onto her heels until she was sitting in the traditional seiza kneeling position on the hard parquet floor.

Her buttocks rested on her heels, her back was straight as a board, her bare shoulders pulled taut backward. The position accentuated the curves of her body, cast shadows into the creases of her abdomen, and made her navel appear like a dark eye in the center of her body.

She was breathing heavily, the air hissing in and out between her slightly parted lips.

“The knife,” she said, her voice now nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

The officer reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a long, narrow wooden case. He opened it and presented the contents: a tanto, a traditional Japanese short sword.

The blade was about twenty-five centimeters long, made of matte steel, with a slight, elegant curve. It was moderately sharp—sharp enough for the task, but not razor-sharp enough to glide effortlessly; it would offer resistance, would require force. The handle was made of dark wood, with a simple wrapping of cotton cord. A tool of death, sober and functional.

Monika reached out her hand, and the officer placed the tanto, blade facing him, into her palm. The cold of the metal made her shiver. She gripped the handle with a firm, bony grip. Then she turned the weapon in her hand until the tip pointed at her own soft lower abdomen.

Now a meticulous preparation began. With the fingers of her left hand, she ran her fingers over her own skin, feeling the contours of her abdomen. She stroked the lower abdominal fold, feeling the underlying fatty tissue give way. She circled her deep navel, feeling the slight elevation of its rim.

Her fingers searched, found, confirmed. Finally, her index finger came to rest about three finger-widths to the left and below the rim of her navel, at a spot where the skin was stretched particularly taut over the underlying muscle. Here. Right here.

She placed the tip of the tanto on that spot. The cold metal tip pressed a small dent into her skin, but it did not penetrate. Everything inside her froze. Her breath caught. The world shrank to this one point, to the pressure between steel and flesh.

The room was so quiet that one could hear the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchenette. Andrea was breathing heavily; the officer stood motionless like a statue.

Then, with an abrupt, hip-driven jerk, Monika thrust forward.

It was no gentle penetration. It was a brutal, determined thrust. The tip of the tanto dug into her skin, initially forming only a deepening funnel of resistant tissue. Her skin stretched, turning pale around the point of pressure, but did not give way.

Monika’s face contorted into a grimace of concentrated effort. She pressed her lips together; her nostrils quivered.

*Rrrr-tsch.*

A short, crackling, almost plastic sound, as if thick packing tape were being torn. The skin had yielded to the pressure, had torn. The tip of the knife had penetrated the first barrier and now stood perhaps two millimeters deep in her body.

A first, piercingly sharp signal of pain shot through her nerve pathways. She let out a strained, hissing sound: “Tsssss-ah!”

She paused, instinctively curling forward, her upper body slumping over her knees. The knife’s handle now protruded from her lower abdomen like a foreign, monstrous accessory. There was hardly any blood to be seen yet, just a tiny, dark circle around the entry point.

The pain was a localized, burning stab. She gasped for air, straightening up again with an incredible effort of will. Her eyes were wide open, her