2 - Becky and Ben bickering in the barn

It was a short walk to the barn, but the fall air was chilly, and Becky was wearing short gym shorts and a bikini top under her T-shirt. She walked faster, and slipped through the barn doors to find Ben sitting in a small wooden model convertible, carving something out of wood.
The entire barn smelled just like that--like carved wood. It had been her dad's workshop and de-facto man-cave before her mom took the house. There were a lot of cars, large and small, some on shelves and some on the floor. A model spaceship sat in the loft with its nose peeking out over the doorway. Becky would have allowed herself to be impressed, if most of these things weren't carved by an abuser.

"Are you sorry?" Becky heard herself ask.

"Are you?" Ben replied. He stood up before she could respond, and gestured toward the car he'd been sitting in. "This is a model of the first car Dad ever bought with his own money. He wanted to help me get one like it someday, before Mom got all his money and spent it on jewelry."

"Why not spend that scumbag's money on things that help her pull a better man?"

Ben glanced at her. He did not glare, which unsettled her. Instead, he gestured to a shelf full of little toy cars.

"The top shelf is the cars Dad carved, the bottom shelf is all mine, both lined up from earliest to latest. He helped me get better and better with every one. I was so proud that I could see my own improvement so clearly, but these days I'm more impressed that Dad was still improving even as he taught me what he knew."

"Which was nothing," Becky said. "It's so annoying that you still call him Dad. That creature is no father of mine."

Some small part of her mind, situated tightly in the back behind everything else, told her to shut up and stop provoking someone much stronger than her. It was indeed small, but she heard it.
But Ben had never hit her before. Why would he start now?

Ben had said nothing in response, and instead had grabbed the rope of a full-sized guillotine. Becky remembered repeated stern warnings from both parents not to play on it, back when she was in her single-digits.

"This is a 1:1 model of one of the guillotines used in the actual French Revolution," Ben said. Becky tried to read his expression. Surely he was angry, but he had gotten quite good at concealing it. Or maybe he was reminiscing to distract himself from what he felt. "Dad built it and put a watermelon through it when I was learning about that time period. Terrible time to be French aristocracy. The history written by the people who didn't have their heads chopped off says they definitely deserved it. Do you think we ought to believe them when their opponents aren't around to defend themselves?"

"Dunno. That should be the penalty for abusers."

"I agree. Anyway, take this book I found, I think it's up your alley."

Ben shoved a book into Becky's hand with a little more force than he needed, stepped aside, thought for a moment, and then handed her an energy drink. He pushed past her and headed for the door. She somehow felt like she had lost for a second time that day. Her goal was to win the argument, right? Or was it to get a reaction out of Ben?

"Yeah, go jerk off alone in your room!" she called after him. "Loser!”

-

3 - Becky in the barn with her book

She looked down at the book he had given her. On the front cover were three muscular werewolves grabbing onto various parts of a bikini-clad woman with her face obscured by one large paw. She checked the first few pages. Indeed, it was the exact sort of steamy dark romance she enjoyed.
Ben just called it porn, the uncultured buffoon.

And an energy drink? What for, this late in the evening?

She had half a mind to chase her brother down and keep provoking him, but while her insults and jabs had gradually stopped working on him, his distractions had only become more distracting.
"Infuriating little incel," she muttered, but she wasn't that mad at him anymore. Not really. He had at least agreed with one of her outrageous claims, but ... it hadn't felt right. He had slipped a blow and she didn't quite know how.

The book was steamy right off the bat. Becky glanced up from it to make sure the barn door was shut, then rested the book on the guillotine's lunette and began to read, gently rocking back and forth on the smooth wood as she read. Suddenly grateful to her brother, she popped the tab on the energy drink and took a sip.

She didn't intend to read all night, but the more she read, the more she was hooked. The story's heroine was just so perfectly bratty, such an infuriating little bitch, and teased and prodded the male leads for so long that when one of them finally snapped, slapped her, transformed into a werewolf, and raped her with violent bestial ferocity, Becky found that her gentle rocking back and forth had turned into a rhythmic bouncing, and the hand which was not occupied with turning pages was slowly finding its way down to her shorts.

“Yes …” she whispered as the assault on page played out exactly as she had hoped. The werewolf was relentless with the heroine. He was fucking her hard from behind, prone, and he grabbed her neck and pulled her up, choking her. The author described her tongue lolling out and bouncing in rhythm with her breasts. When she tried to protest, the werewolf only squeezed her neck harder.
“Choke me …” Becky breathed, taking another sip from her drink. There was no other girl on the page. Becky didn’t even remember the heroine’s name. To her, it was just Becky. Becky, no one else, who had pushed and prodded a man just a little too far, and was now paying for it with her body, which was all she was good for anyway.

The werewolf released the herione’s throat and shoved her head to the ground, keeping her pinned with one powerful clawed paw, drawing blood from her face where his claws cut her.

Becky’s legs quivered. Her fingers traced her pussy through the thin fabric of her shorts. “More …” she breathed. “Break her. Break me. Crush my skull … as you cum inside … ah …” She closed her eyes and slid her finger past her panties. She was only halfway through the book, and there were two more sexy werewolves who had to have their way with the bratty little tease of a heroine. But the scene which played out in her head cut the useless second half from the book, because in his lustful fury, hatefucking her with unbridled violence, the werewolf pounded the heroine’s soaking, squirting pussy like a jackhammer, roared, came hard inside her, and with a powerful shove he could never take back, he shoved down hard and crushed the heroine’s—Becky’s—pretty head like a watermelon.

The sound was wet and grotesque, a moist, saturated crack that echoed as her skull fractured under his immense strength. Blood and gray matter exploded outward, painting the ground beneath her in a visceral spray. Bone shards flew through the air, some catching in her hair, others clattering against the walls. The orgasmic scream that had been building in her throat died instantly, replaced by a wet pumping gurgle as her head exploded into indistinct gory mush. Her headless body jerked violently, a final, convulsive dance against his toned figure. Hot blood pumped from her messily abbreviated neck stump, covering his muscular chest and abdomen in a sticky warm slop as her limbs flailed uselessly.

Breathing hard, fingering herself at the speed of the werewolf in her mind, Becky leaned down over the lunette, nearly drooling with desire for the lustful finale playing out in her mind. Juices splashed and squirted out of her pussy in rhythm with her frantic fingering. Moans escaped her lips that she made no effort to suppress, and she came with that messy image in her mind’s eye, finishing it off by matching the werewolf’s orgasm to her own. In her mind, the werewolf roared and came inside her a second time, driven by the lustful postmortem vice-grip of her pussy with no mind to control it. He pulled out of the dead bitch in Becky’s mind, leaving her carcass ass-up and squirting out cum from one end like a geyser and blood out the other.

-

4 - Becky plays with the blade

Panting, some degree of sense returned to Becky as she knelt there on the guillotine. Despite everything, she had just placed a lot of trust in her father’s craftsmanship, to throw her neck over the lunette like that. She hadn’t locked herself in, but that blade above her was real. If her motions had loosened the rope holding it in place, and it came loose, she would have had less than a second to move before the blade struck her.

Even so, most of her attention went to the strange contraption below her head.

The basket she remembered being there in her childhood had been moved, and there was some sort of makeshift ramp, maybe more accurately described as a Rube Goldberg machine made of poorly cut scraps of wood that did not look at all like her father’s craftsmanship, or Ben’s. Still quivering where she had come, she followed the device with her eyes. It was like a track for toy cars, not unlike one Ben and his father had built, but sized for rolling heads. Even she could tell it would not work, though it seemed like its purpose was to roll a severed head down a slide and then somehow jump it up onto a table on the other side of the guillotine. She had not even seen this while arguing with Ben, but the only conclusion she could come to was that her mom had built it. What was it for?

She finally, somehow reluctantly, detached herself from the guillotine that she now found so thrilling, and squeezed her way behind the little table her mom had built. She knelt and rested her chin on it to see her perspective from that angle, and realized with a touch of horror, and another touch of perverse kinship, that she had not been the first woman in her family to use this guillotine the way she had.

The table provided a perfect view of the guillotine, but more importantly, its purpose seemed to be to give the beheaded victim the best possible view of her body.

There were so many things wrong with it. First, the severed head would not have nearly enough momentum to make the jump onto the platform. Second, a head was not a ball and would not roll evenly enough to even make it that far. Third, if it somehow did deny physics and leap up onto the platform, there was no guarantee it would even land facing the right way.

Her mom had built this one-handed, she realized. Logic was not Becky’s strong suit in the first place (which was part of why Ben’s infuriated her), but what logic she did have went out the window when she was good and horny. She knew that was true of most people.

Becky understood her mother, she thought. They had the same hair, eyes, body, and perversions. They had the same personality, the implications of which Becky never allowed herself to fully explore. Even now, at the perfect opportunity to think this through, Becky chose instead to go and unwind the rope holding the guillotine’s blade in place. She would not stick her neck under it, of course. She just wanted to see it fall.

She undid the knot and wrapped the coarse rope around her hand. She pulled and released, letting the heavy blade come down and pull her arm up toward the pulley before she pulled down and reset the blade to its highest point. It was good and heavy, more than enough to lop someone’s head off. She remembered what it had done to the watermelon when her father had demonstrated it all those years ago. Back then, it hadn’t even crossed her mind to fantasize about her own death. It was half cool and half scary. She hadn’t needed her parents’ warnings against playing on this historic death machine.

She considered leaving all of this for the night and going to bed, but looked down and found herself still a soaking mess with her shorts and panties around one ankle, and her body still covered in sweat and juices. There was no way she was going to risk Ben seeing her like this, after she had told him to go jerk off alone.

Reminded of his strangely thoughtful gift, she took another sip of the energy drink he had left her, then realized how thirsty she had become and drank the rest. Curious, with the rope still in hand, she balanced the empty can on the lunette, then let go of the rope.

The blade hissed down. An instant before impact, Becky was suddenly worried about the amount of noise it would make. But the crash, though noisy, did not hurt her ears. Unfortunately for the can, it had been cleanly bisected, and its top half rolled onto the first plank of the makeshift track, lost its momentum, and clattered onto the floor.

Of course the track wouldn’t work.

But the guillotine certainly had.

-

5 - Becky tempts and teases Fate

Becky’s hands grew warm and tingly as she pulled the blade back up and wrapped the rope back in its place. She did not tie it, but friction seemed to keep it in place well enough. Then she looked down at the failed track and the basket which had been pushed aside. Carefully, so as not to damage anything, she pulled the track away from the guillotine and pushed the basket back where it belonged. She noticed her book at the bottom, where it had fallen.

It had been a good book, but it was not quite extreme enough. The ending Becky had come up with was ten times hotter than boring old werewolf rape. Every dark romance under the sun has a scene where the man lost control and had his way with the heroine, but he never gave her what she really deserved. Dark romance heroes were like most men: way too nice, way too restrained, while playing at some facsimile of ancient warrior brutality that they would never really have for lack of ancient wars where they could cultivate that trait.

A real werewolf would not have tolerated the bratty heroine for more than a few seconds before raping her and deleting her head from existence.

It had taken this one fifteen chapters, and he hadn't even had the balls to crush her stupid slutty skull.

Dissatisfied and feeling hot again, Becky laid face-up on the guillotine, shut her neck in the lunette, and closed her eyes. In her mind, she took the werewolf away and replaced him with an ancient warrior. Her imagination was not quite vivid enough to hold all the details in her head at once, but she made sure he was muscular, tanned from his time fighting under the sun, and simultaneously in some superposition of armored and shirtless. He wore a helmet, which seemed almost unbidden from Becky’s mind. She had planned to give him a handsome face, but there was mystery this way, so she kept it. In her mind's eye, she was a woman of his enemy’s tribe who had argued at length to let the barbarians in and give them refuge. Now she was laid out before one such barbarian. She protested and pushed against him, but this bloodlusted warrior did not tolerate her resistance for even an instant. He slapped her face with the flat of his bare sword, punched her in the belly, and without a moment's hesitation, penetrated her hard and fast.
Becky’s fingers simulated the violation, rather inadequately, but her mind did the heavy lifting. She imagined that his cock was as hard as his sword, and as thick as her wrist. He was not interested in her pleasure. He was simply taking what was his, what was owed to him as his birthright, for he was a man of war. His thrusts were deep and brutal, his hands were rough as he slapped her face, choked her, squeezed her tits, and gripped her waist to fuck her more roughly. He had no interest in foreplay, and as he pumped into her, he insulted her: "Worthless whore. Be a good girl and squeeze tighter."

In the real world, Becky’s legs tensed and quivered and she began to bounce on the wooden platform again. Heat from her arousal and the energy drink flared up within her. She arched her back, listening to the squelching sounds of her fingers on her pussy in the silence of the barn. It was such a distinctive, erotic sound, and so wonderfully perverse to hear while riding a guillotine.

“Worthless fucking woman,” she whispered to herself, pretending it was the warrior’s voice. “You’re a weak traitorous coward who sold out her people. I expect better even from my enemies.”
“Please, mercy!” she whined, both hands at her pussy to try and approximate the warrior’s size. Inadequate again, but she was far too horny right now to quit and go find a toy of the right size. He slammed her head against the ground as he raped her, he punched her, he spit in her face and choked her as he came gallons inside her. He came so much that his cum instantly filled her womb and spilled out obscenely from her pussy, surely impregnating her. With her fingers and imagination working in tandem, she came to a shaking orgasm, bucking and thrashing as her fluids sprayed over her hand, her legs, and the platform.

The warrior's sword came down hard on her neck, its tip splitting her throat in two and chopping straight through her spine, effectively beheading her while her head was still mostly attached. In her mind, her body’s convulsions were frantic, pure reflex and instinct and sexual energy reacting to her violent end even with her spine and brain detached. Watery eyes stared up at the man who jerked his sword first to the right, and then the left to completely sever her head.
Becky’s shoulders slammed against the lunette, her ass hitting the platform and rising up again as her back arched and she balanced on her heels. She slipped on her panties and shorts, which were still bunched up around her ankle, and hit the platform again, rattling the entire contraption. Juices squirted so far out her pussy that she felt them splatter on her toes, but the string of orgasms was far from over. The warrior, still rock hard, mounted her head on his massive cock like a trophy or a codpiece. He grabbed her hair and, as she watched her headless body squirt blood from one end and cum from the other, he fucked her severed head like a toy. She watched the head of his cock come out of her mouth again and again, glistening with his precum and her own blood. Gripping her head tight, he shoved it down to the base and came, a huge spurt of white semen soaring in a well aimed arc to splatter on her body’s trembling tits and down her open throat. Her body convulsed and made a gurgled choking sound as that thick warrior semen slipped easily down into her stomach as a fitting last meal for a girl like her.
Becky heard a hissing sound in the real world, oddly close.

Her eyes snapped open.

Her fantasy blinked out of existence and every cell in her body flung itself into survival mode.
Muscles fired with a once-in-a-lifetime urgency. Becky threw the lunette high off her neck and sat up with a speed that caused a tearing pain in her side. She felt the blade catch the tips of her hair and then crash down with a sound much louder and much closer than when it had bisected the empty drink can.

Silence followed, broken only by Becky’s panting, heaving breaths and the rapid, deafening pounding of her heart.

She had not tied the rope.

She had trusted friction to keep it in place. Friction had worked hard, but she had masturbated so vigorously that it has come loose despite its best efforts.

Becky held up her hand and stared at it. Glistening juices connected three of her fingers. She had very nearly died a sudden, bloody death, and it was her own lustfulness which would have caused it.

She dropped her hand to her heaving breast, taking deep breaths and collecting herself.

This was, by far, the greatest thrill she had ever felt in her life.

Guilty, self-conscious thoughts once relegated to little corners in the back of her mind, now berated her for her mindless depravity. These responsible pieces of herself rebelled and threatened to take control from the stupid, horny bitch presently in the driver’s seat.

“Calm down,” she murmured to herself. “I’m not gonna do that again.”

-

6 - … she said, lying.

She pulled the blade back up and tied it as firmly as she could. Then, to screams of protest from her sensible side, and rabid cheers from the side which had just brought her to a string of powerful organs, she laid back down on the guillotine, raised the lunette, and let it fall back over her neck. The clash of instincts in her mind made her tremble and moan, half from fear and half from arousal.

This time, as a concession to her sensible half, the rope was tied and she was perfectly safe. Her sensible side argued that she was still laying in a live guillotine and using the threat of death for stupid short-term pleasure.

Her other side argued that was the point.

She squeezed her breast until it hurt, reviving the fantasy of the ancient warrior, and she bid him plant his boot in her chest as her headless body quivered.

As if with a mind of his own, the ancient warrior instead removed his helmet to reveal the face of Ben.

“Unbelievable,” he said, placing her severed head in the crook of her arm, facing up so that she could see him kneeling in front of her still-twitching body. “You couldn’t get enough of shit-testing me, so you went and shit-tested Fate.”

Becky heard a snap, and then a familiar, ominous hissing. Heart leaping into her throat, she threw the lunette up as high as she could and went to sit up.

Her ass slipped on the platform, slick with her own juices.

She fell back down into the half-moon crescent, and the lunette came back down just ahead of the hissing blade.

Panic flared up in Becky's stomach.

“Help me!” she cried out to the armored figure of Ben in her mind.

“What do you want from me?” he said, face impassive. Then, with just the slightest hint of mockery: “I’m jerking off alone in my room.”

The blade sliced through Becky’s neck in an instant. The fantasy was gone, and Becky was left with nothing but real-world consequences. The world spun forward, completely out of Becky’s control. She saw the guillotine and the barn from a unique low angle, impossible to achieve with a body in the way. She caught a glimpse of the book that had fallen in the basket as her head rolled, then she found herself looking up at the fallen blade. Two bright red streams of blood squirted over it, landing with audible splatters on the floor behind the basket and inside it, coating Becky’s face in her own blood. She could hear her body thrashing on the platform, even if she could not see it. She saw only the red stump of her neck, her opened esophagus and the cross section of her spine, and the arteries that still sprayed those two jets of warm blood onto her helpless face. For a moment, she felt her body’s legs kick the guillotine frame from her perspective at a bizarre angle. The sensation of the impact registered through some phantom connection that had not yet faded.

Then it faded.

Becky’s body outlived her severed head: she heard it still bucking, writhing, and convulsing as her senses faded to black.

-

7 - Stacy, seductive selector and single mother

Stacy put down the phone, frustrated. Surely, if she didn’t have the kids to factor in, she could pull the man she so desperately needed. This one had been so promising, too: he had not instantly ghosted her when she told him she was a single mother, and had seemed like the type to treat another man’s children well. He had a hot voice that she had loved roleplaying with over the phone. Then she had made the mistake of linking him the court case to prove her innocence in the divorce. He had not agreed with the jury, and that was the end of that.

And now, as she always did when she was frustrated and alone yet again, she went to the barn, where despite everything, she had kept her first husband’s woodcraft projects. It had been his favorite place, built by his own hands, and she had taken it from him. She had once seen it as an act of conquest. In a way she still did. His old land was hers, and he lived in a tiny, sparse apartment that she could make tinier and sparser if she so desired by citing inflation and inadequate payment to the judge and selling it with a few tears for the jury. She felt no guilt for it. As her first husband himself had said, it was a woman’s role to select the worthiest man and drive him to greatness. He had not been sufficient … but she had never found anyone quite like him.

She opened the doors to find the lights on and the smell of wood tainted by something else.

Stacy’s first husband had been a masterful woodworker. She had wanted to destroy his life’s work out of a petty sense of vengeance, but with a lit match in hand, she had found herself unable to destroy what he had made. Especially the centerpiece: the replica guillotine, on which she had spent dozens of lonely nights engrossed in lurid fantasy.

The guillotine’s blade was all the way down. Stacy could not recall ever hearing it. Heart suddenly racing, she approached the contraption.

The headless female body which lay there was functionally naked, large, soft breasts exposed beneath a pulled-up shirt and bikini top. Her panties and shorts were bunched up around one ankle, and otherwise her pure, beautiful white skin was completely exposed, slick with sweat and slimy with juices, especially down her perfect thighs. The body on the guillotine was a perfect image of Stacy in her late-teens. She dreaded looking in the basket because she knew what she would find.

-

8 - Stacy’s lust and Becky’s body

She looked, and found two big, shocked green eyes staring into hers. Sightless. Becky’s face was pale, spattered with her own blood. A little book from Stacy’s collection rested in the basket beside her daughter’s beautiful severed head, partly covered with her hair.

It was the sort of thing Becky and Stacy both loved to read. Her little girl, her perfect reflection, had gone and gotten herself killed in the exact same way her mother so often fantasized about. The perfect, final act of submission. The ultimate punishment.

Stacy felt herself growing wet. Behind the shock that she was certain would collapse into grief at any moment, this was the hottest thing she had ever seen. Becky's body was flawless, utterly gorgeous even without her head, her skin glossy with a coating of sweat and juices.

She looked at her daughter's headless body with a rapidly growing desire. The body was still twitching out its last tiny vestiges of energy, a reflexive dance of death that was strangely erotic. Stacy felt a pull, a dark fascination that she couldn't ignore. Her daughter had died very recently. Her body, when Stacy placed a hand on her chest, was still warm.

She looked at the door. She had seen Ben go to bed, so she was alone in the barn with her daughter, who had just died in the most erotic way Stacy could imagine. It was an opportunity she would never get again. If she waited, her shock would settle into grief, and she would never feel this way again.

She plucked her daughter’s severed head from the basket and hugged it to her breasts, careless of the blood now staining her camisole.

“My sweet, beautiful little girl,” she cooed. “How dare you go and die in such a ridiculously sexy way without telling me …”

She reached out and gave the rope a pull to reset the guillotine, but found that it had snapped, after all these years. That meant that Becky had died accidentally, while teasing and tempting fate, just as Stacy had done so often. What had caused the rope to fray? Was it the repeated tugs Stacy had given it over the years, trusting her first husband’s craftsmanship to protect her from herself?

Stacy kissed her daughter’s forehead, paused, then abandoned her shame and kissed the girl’s soft, cooling lips. What a pure, sweet taste she had.

“I think I might have got you killed, Becky … sorry about that, but the way your body looks, you must have really, really enjoyed it.”

She placed the girl's head on the little table beside the guillotine, then softly touched the pussy of Becky’s headless corpse. Still wet. Soaking wet. By whatever reflexes her corpse still had, there came a twitch and a tiny squirt, likely all she had left after making such a mess of herself.

A whining sound escaped Stacy's throat, a longing little whimper. "Oh fuck, that's hot ..."

Her gaze raked over Becky's pretty, girlish figure. A possessive heat rose up from between her legs.

That gorgeous young body belonged to her. Not even Becky had any say over what Stacy did to it now.

Another thread of decency frayed and snapped.

Her own clothes became another thread to be snapped. She peeled them away with desperate, trembling fingers and swung a leg over the platform, over the dead girl. Positioning herself, she lowered her hips in a slow, deliberate motion. Heated, dripping wet folds met the slimy, soaked flesh of her daughter's mound. A jolt shot up her back the moment their pussies pressed together, and she moaned Becky's name quietly under her breath.

She began to move, a slow rock of her hips that sent waves of pleasure crashing through her body with each repeated thrust. The sheer wrongness of it made her want it more and more, having such passionate lesbian sex with her daughter's sexy little body.

“You're so beautiful," she moaned, leaning down over the girl's wet body. Their breasts pressed together, nipples glancing off each other. "... even like this, you're beautiful."

She began to grind faster, harder, imagining the moment the blade fell from its snapped rope and clipped her daughter's head off. What kind of sound had she made? Stacy imagined it was a long, orgasmic moan that turned into a yelp as she realized what was happening, and then that yelp was swiftly, permanently, silenced.

“I hope you weren't too frightened, Becky ..." she murmured, hands to the girl's breasts, kneading them softly at first, and then more roughly as she sped up. "But ... it would be really, really hot if you were."

Becky's head watched from the table with clouded, sightless eyes. It was a really hot expression, Stacy thought. She had always imagined it would be her own head there, somehow, someday. But this was better. Way better. This way, she was alive to experience it.

“How do you like it sweetie? The perfect view of your perfect little body. ”

Stacy watched the girl’s beautiful breasts jiggle along to her movements, their supple weight shifting with each lustful thrust of her hips. She lusted so badly for that perfect, tight little teenage body she had once bore herself. Becky's nipples, hardened into perfect little peaks, dragged against Stacy's own swollen breasts, sending electric jolts of pleasure straight to her pussy. The sight of her daughter's flawless, glistening white skin made Stacy's mouth water. She leaned down, her breath hot against the girl's cooling skin, and captured one perfectly stiff nipple between her teeth, sucking hard enough to leave a faint mark.

"Look at you," Stacy groaned. "Such an erotic, tight little figure, even now. I just wanna sink my teeth in and eat you up …"

She could still feel warmth radiating from Becky's corpse. It would not last long. Stacy's hips moved with increasing urgency, grinding their slick folds together in a rhythm frantic and nearly worshipful.

Nearing climax, Stacy looked over at the blade resting just below the lunette where it had fallen and lopped Becky’s head off. She looked down at the mess her daughter’s blood had made. It was a beautiful, patterned array of splatters which had by now pooled out into little rivers, seeking their way downhill toward the drains at the edges of the barn. Some blood still dripped slowly from the blade. Stacy could hear the little slaps as the droplets hit the bottom of the basket. Much louder were the distinctive, juicy slaps of Stacy's hips against Becky's.

“I bet you were just like I wanted to be. I wish I could have seen it … oh, what a thrill that would have been, to see my own daughter scream and come and squirt as her head was ... fuck ...”

Stacy felt her pussy convulse in orgasm, pressed tightly against Becky's. She felt her juices mix with her daughter's, felt the heat of arousal still burning within her. Desperate, she grabbed Becky's head from the table and pressed her lips hard against her daughter's, a frantic, one-sided kiss that nonetheless made Stacy's orgasm even more powerful. She moaned into Becky's dead lips, kissing her with abandon as the slimy squelching sounds from below began to sound almost like splashes with so much fluid released. She held that kiss, her tongue exploring Becky’s slack mouth, until the final spasms of her orgasm subsided.

Panting, she leaned back, holding the severed head up by its hair like a trophy, admiring her daughter once again. Every part of her was beautiful, but those bright green eyes, even as they clouded over, were wonderfully captivating, and deeply familiar. They were, after all, the same eyes she saw in the mirror every day. The same beautiful eyes that had captivated so many men, and now, her.

"What a waste," she whispered, tracing her thumb over Becky's lips. "A hot, messy, utterly erotic waste ... but such a perfect end."

-

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!"

-

10 - The death she always wanted

Back in the present, Stacy turned her head, enduring the cut of the blade, just enough to see the model spaceship, bolted down all those years ago, groaning and tilting down and further down, little by little as the bolts popped out, one by one.

She froze.

Becky's body in her arms, her pussy tight against the girl's thigh, Stacy could only watch as, in the space of two seconds, the model's nose slipped neatly between the scaffolding of the guillotine and came down hard, like a gigantic wooden hammer, on the top of the blade.

Schunk.

Pain filled her neck, sensation vanished beneath it, and Stacy felt herself falling.
Her nose bonked the spicy novel, and her head rolled until she was facing up. Thoughts fled, and all that went through her mind was exactly what she saw and heard: two bright streams of blood sailing over the blade, splashing against the nose of the model ship, then past it and all around as Stacy's naked, sweat-soaked figure sat up. She could see her own large breasts bounce as her hands groped feverishly where her head should be. Blood splashed her fingers and squirted left, then right as her body swayed and shuddered.

What Stacy's severed head could not see, but which Becky's sightless eyes witnessed in plain view, was her mother's voluptuous frame convulsing in a frenzied, primal dance atop Becky's still form. The slick, glistening flesh of their pussies met in a desperate, grinding clash, each thrust frantic and mindless. Her breasts, heavy and pendulous, slapped against Becky's chest with wet, meaty thuds as her hips bucked and swiveled with a disoriented, brainless fervor.
Stacy's fingers, unguided and reflexive, dug into the soft mounds of Becky's breasts, blindly kneading the smooth flesh, like a massage with sweat and love juices for oil, mixed now with the blood from Stacy's neck that splattered down onto her daughter's tight body.

Stacy's body arched suddenly into a rigid, trembling curve. A geyser of translucent juices erupted from her convulsing cunt, spraying over Becky's hips and belly with a shimmering coating. For a moment, her voluptuous form balanced on the knife's edge between life and death, trembling on the edge of orgasm and collapse.

Then the strings of life fell loose. Stacy's full figure collapsed onto Becky's, their bodies splashing together in a morbidly alluring heap of glistening limbs and heaving, bloody breasts. The last vestiges of life pulsed through her in a series of violent shudders, each tremor sending ripples through the juicy flesh that pressed against her daughter's. Gradually, the spasms subsided, leaving only the soft, rhythmic drip of mingled juices and blood onto the wooden floor below.

Unlike her daughter, Stacy's head outlived her body. She had just died in exactly the way she wanted, but all she felt was regret. Anger. She had wanted one last explosive orgasm, the best and last of her life, something final and mind-shattering to send her off ... but her head had been lopped off, and her body had taken that last desperate orgasm all for itself. She had felt nothing but pain in her neck, and emptiness.

It wasn't fair.

She wanted to undo what had just happened. If she had known when that model was going to knock the blade through her neck, she would have done things entirely differently.

What had she done wrong? Where had she gone wrong?

Was it the divorce?

Why did she divorce him so quickly after he lost his job?

Was it the other man who had been seducing her? The one who she found out later was only pretending to be wealthy?

It must have been him. It was all his fault, that lying cheat. Her ex-husband had failed in his duty to provide for her when he got fired, and the man she chased after that had deceived her with false wealth. The next one had abused her trust. The one after that was a liar. The one after that was another fraud, and again, and again, and again.

The answer clicked in her final seconds, just before she lost too much blood to think.

It was all of them.

It was all their fault.

Green eyes rolled up in her skull and the last spasms of energy in her body spent themselves on pointless little twitches of her fingers.

What remained was the obscene still-life of two lusciously voluptuous bodies locked in a final, perverse embrace on the guillotine. The younger, taut with teenage perfection, lay pinned beneath her mother’s matured flesh—a woman who had just begun to relinquish that youthful tautness for the full swell of ripened sexuality. Both bodies gleamed with a slick sheen of sweat and their own copious fluids. The guillotine platform was soaked to a similar sheen with the mingled evidence of their frantic, desperate orgasms—transparent juices intermingling with the darkening pools of freshly spilled blood. Stacy's full breasts, heavy and luscious even in death, pressed firmly against Becky's perky mounds, nipples still erect in a final state of arousal. The mother's rounded ass, still glistening from her own climax, rested atop Becky's slender legs which remained slightly spread—bent in the position of her final, fatal climax. Their pussies remained pressed together in one last intimate proof of their shared depravity.

Nearby, two beautiful severed heads gazed sightlessly upon the beauty and the carnage: Becky's, positioned carefully on the makeshift table, stared with clouded green eyes at her mother's body draped over hers; Stacy's, wedged in the blood-slicked basket, gazed upward at the murderous blade and the model ship above it that had, in the manner of a monkey’s paw, granted her twisted deathwish.

A peaceful silence filled the barn, interrupted only by the slow, steady dripping of blood from the guillotine's blade and from its platform, as well as the other fluids which had been spilled there. The model spaceship which had put an end to the noise creaked and groaned as it slowly tilted back to its original, precarious position.