SubscribeStar.art

The Fantasy

By DX

“I like your guillotine.” She wrote.

I had come to the phase of my villainy where I was untouchable, and in my arrogance, I flaunted my power and posted pictures of my, ‘historical project’: A fully functional guillotine.

“Thank you.” I posted to the chat, showing my humble side. I then went on about the design, the technical, boring stuff, the chemical properties of the varnish and how the synthetic make up differed from what they used during the French Revolution.

“I would love to experience your guillotine.” She wrote.

I was in an on-line kinky chat group, in the political rant section, and was loosely following along a discussion of the have nots demanding the power to take money from the wealthy and redistribute that wealth as the have nots saw fit. Amongst the cries of Eat the Rich, I posted my guillotine, its iconic, terrifying blade, sharp and shiny.

“Well,” I joked, responding with a winking smiley face. “It’s an experience to die for.” I then quickly posted about my hidden improvements to the design, and although it perfectly resembled a device from 1793, it was far more efficient. I then talked about the history of problems it had, which resulted in the need for the Titus hair cut to ensure the falling blade had no obstructions.

“You can cut my hair, if you want.” She replied.

This wasn’t the first time someone flirted with my guillotine on-line. It had a presence. It was, and still is, a beacon of power. A machine built to brutally lock someone in place, control them completely, and render them utterly helpless. Then with a casual, effortless tug of a cord, drop a blade to efficiently slice off a head.

It carried a certain authority.

Authority, power, and control, are sexy as fuck.

When strapped down to a guillotine, the head is isolated, as if it has already been cut off. The victim can only peer down at the darkness of the waiting basket, a shadowy oblivion. The executioner can see the head, locked in the lunette, and the body strapped to the bascule, as two separate things. The executioner can briefly enjoy the incredible sense of power standing there, holding the cord, knowing with a pull they will end a person.

It’s magic.

Then there is the strange dynamic of holding a severed head, watching it blink, its eyes roving around, trying to speak. The head is helpless, and the executioner, empowered.

For the fetishist, it is a power dynamic that turns them on; the complete submission, the surrender of everything, the acceptance of worthlessness, giving their life cheaply to the pleasure of another.

“I read,” she wrote, trying to match my academic tone and failing. “the victim would give a little somthin’ somethin’ to the executioner. A little motivation to make sure it goes well. Maybe you could have your fun as I lay on your guillotine with my head locked, looking into the basket, maybe a head or two already in there, the blade about to fall—you take me from behind, and just as you’re about to blow your load, drop the blade so my wet pussy goes into spasm and milk your big, hard cock—and all I have is the final feeling of orgasm as you fuck me hard.”

And there it was, someone looking for a little roll-play. It was a kink site, and like everyone there, she was looking for a little sexy play, a little spark. Some person, claiming to be a female in her late twenties, was having a little fantasy, perhaps masturbating as she wrote, a vibrator buzzing away near her clit.

I poured a little cold water on them. “My model is a fully functional reproduction. To experience its features would be a one way trip.”

“I would like to die on your guillotine.” She wrote.

Teaser: for the whole story, plus access to many more stories of Dolcett styled erotic horror, consider supporting us at:
https://subscribestar.adult/posts/2479439

Copyright 6/2026, all rights reserved.
[email protected]