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Erotic Death Tales by Hitomi
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                                                                       "The Singer"                                       "The Case of Mata Hari"
The Condemned


The first minute she saw the lodge, she knew she would not leave, could not leave.
She knew she had never been here, yet she was equally sure its presence had always been manifested
deep inside her.  It was her beginning, her source. She knew it would be her completion.
Viewing from the boat, the whole structure looked like a huge swan about to take flight from the serene
lake.  The western wall was mostly covered by overhanging ivy laddering down while green moss was
slowly seeping up, undermining its base, giving the air of long neglect and resignation to its inevitable
fate.  The east side was in a slightly better condition and Natasha could imagine the sight of a rising
sun over the tops of the nearby woods from the rooms in the mornings. Not a bad place to end one’s
fugitive odyssey really.
She knew what was installed for her, for both of them.
He had betrayed the organization, they would go after him and extract the price.  He knew.  He had
witnessed what would happen to traitors and he had told her so many times how it would happen.  On
an unsuspecting day they would find themselves confronted by the people sent after them.  They
would be taken out to a quiet spot, blindfolded and shot.  At least that was what happened to the
couple who had betrayed the organization.  He was there, years ago, as an apprentice.  He could still
remember the man pleading mercy, in vain of course, and the calmness the woman accepted her fate.  
She was remarkably beautiful and the face never quite left him after all these years.  In his dreams he
had watched her go through the ritual over and over again: the submissive kneeling, the blindfolding,
her wrists voluntary offer to be bound behind her back and then the quiet poofs as they shot her with
pistols.  He could remember the blood slowly oozing out from her breasts, dying the short silver satin
dress crimson as her body sank to the ground.  There was no scream, not a sound from her throughout
the process and he had felt such arousal to have witnessed it as something beautiful.  He had told her
all these.
Any girl in her right mind would have made a run for it.
She didn’t.
She couldn’t.
She was so obsessed with it that she made him repeat the story to her on many nights, after their love-
making, insisting on each tiny details: the color of her eyes: gray, the hemline of her skirt, two inches
above her knees, the pattern of the blood and how the corpses were dragged unceremoniously to
their final resting ground.  He could feel the sadness in her as he repeated the story, a compassion felt
for a fallen sister so long ago and at the same time, a subtle arousal betrayed by the faster up and
down movement of her young breasts.  “She is putting herself in that woman’s shoes.” He thought to
He was in his early twenties when that happened and she should be no more than a toddler. During the
intervening two decades, he had witnessed more deaths, more executions; many of which he played a
more active role but none could compare the intensity he felt for that particular shooting.  Somehow,
he knew one day he would meet the same end.  Self-preservation had been fighting a long war against
self-seeking destruction and the later impulse had won.  He betrayed them in full knowledge of the
consequence, because of the consequence.
She had been his lover for three years when he had to run for his life.  He could not leave her behind
as he knew she would not survive the interrogation and the torture.  He had only two choices: to shoot
her or to take her along.  He took her along and she had not resisted, not even once. He knew she
wanted to stay with him, to be part of the end.
They played hide and seek with their pursuers for a while.  Though they knew the final result would be
the same, they did not want to be easy game.  Rather than feeling themselves frightened preys, it was
more like an old elephant which knew it was going to die and was determined to find an ideal spot
doing it.  He took her to London, Paris Stockholm, Prague and numerous small towns, staying one to
two nights at the most, taking flight once they smelled the hunters closing in.  They could go on like
this for a longer time, a year, even two.  But they also knew the pursuers were relentless and one day,
they would catch up on them.  They had become tired of running and decided to put an end to all these.
So, he took her to the lodge in Switzerland, the place where he had spent his childhood.
When she saw it, she knew it was the perfect place. It was secluded, the house itself was somewhat
run-down.  There was even a marsh near by which triggered the correlation of death within her.  She
let her head rest on his shoulder, a sad satisfaction on her face.  So, this was the place where it would
He helped her get out of the boat.  She stepped on the long wooden pier and the creaking sound
frightened a few wild swans into flight.  The fluttering wings beating the air created a rush of air,
stirring the serene water into ripples.  She followed the flight of the startled birds until they were out of
sight, a sudden sadness flooded all over her body and she trembled a little.  When he offered his
jacket, she shook her head.  She was wearing a white camisole, her shoulders mostly exposed and she
so vulnerable.  She actually found such vulnerability desirable, even arousing.  She closed her eyes,
awaiting the sharp pain from a sniper rifle somewhere among the bushes, imagined how her body
would twist and fall headlong in the cold water, making a splash, the red ring spreading like a halo from
the wound.  She wanted to be shot through her heart but could accept it if they aimed at her head, as
long as it would not ruin her face.  But no shot came.  They walked safely all the way of the planks and
reached the small door of the lodge.  He fished out a punch of keys, tested on a few before succeeding
in opening up and ushered her inside.
It was not as bad as she thought it to be.
The inside of the house was obviously cared for.  It had a small sitting room with a fireplace on one
side.  A spiral flight of stairs led to the rooms upstairs, the one she had envisioned how the rays of a
rising sun would penetrate the curtains onto their bed.  The furniture was of dark wood, giving the
place an ancient feel.  
Just then she heard the sound of a door-knob being turned.  She starred in the direction from which
the sound came from.  A small door opened and a figure emerged.  It was a woman in her late twenties.  
Natasha took in the beautiful face and felt a tinge of jealousy.  
“Is that you, Henri?”  
Natasha gasped.  The woman was blind.
“Yes, it is I, Constance.” Henri replied.  Then, he turned towards Natasha.  “Natasha, meet Constance,
my half-sister.”


He had never told her he had a half-sister.  He had never told her that Constance, beside being his half-
sister, was also his lover.  “Incest had always been in our family blood.” He now told her.  Strangely,
she did not feel any revulsion.
“But she will be in danger.” She whispered in his ear. “Does she know…?”
“Yes she does.  And I have promised her never to leave her behind alone.” He said this in a matter-of-
fact manner.
Natasha felt silent for a while.  It now dawned on her that this Constance was going to share their fate,
that she would also be killed if the hunters took no mercy on the fact of her blindness.  She felt a
hurting pity on the blind girl.  Slowly she walked over until she was standing right in front of her.  
The two women stood facing each other, one sized up the other with her eyes, the other just took in
the warmth of Natasha’s breadth.
“Can I touch you?” It was Constance who first broke the silence.
Natasha nodded, only then realized how stupid she was as the other woman could not see her head
But it did not matter.  Constance raised her hands and touched the face of the new girl.
“You are young, and beautiful.  Why do you want to die with him?”
Natasha wanted to say that she loved him but could not bring herself to lie.  It was more than that.  She
tried hard to say something more convincing, to herself.
“It did not matter.” Constance saved her from her embarrassment.  “I like you.”
She pulled Natasha into an embrace.  
Natasha felt the flood of excitement over her entire self when their chests were pressed against each
other.  She could tell Constance had a magnificent body under her dress and she was longing to bury
her head among those breasts.
“Come upstairs.  I have prepared your room.” Constance pulled herself out of the embrace, turned
right and led them up the spiral staircase.


They made love in the night.  Henri helped his sister to undress his lover and then the brother and
sister worked from either side of their common lover, cupping and kissing Natasha’s young breasts
with their pinkish nipples.  Henri mounted her first and Natasha, spreading her legs for him to
penetrate, kissed Constance passionately at the side. The experience of being fucked by Henri while
entering pre-play with his sister was so mind-blowing that Natasha soon had her orgasm almost
immediately.  She bit her lower lip to suppress her moans as she wanted to give that to her new,
female, partner.  But when Constance began to suck from her tits, she could hold back no more.  She
gave release to her suppressed desire and begged to be violated.  Henri was driven into fresh vigor
and soon ejaculated.  After he collapsed to one side, Constance took over and the two women held
each other in arms and made love wildly beside the recuperating Henri.

Night after night, the three abandoned themselves in sex.  When Natasha had her fill, she sometimes
retreated to one side and watched Henri had intercourse with his half-sister.  The sight of Constance
under Henri, her breasts arched to be touched, kissed, sucked, excited Natasha so much that she
could not stop from touching herself.  In her mind, she was imagining their last scene together, being
led out of the house, wrists tied behind their backs and shot at the edge of the marsh.  She had
imagined every possible angle the bullets would drill into their bodies, how they would fall and heaped
upon each other, the desire to touch each other and lay together in some shallow grave and this alone
could drive her to new climax. They experimented with every conceivable position, the two women
opening up every entrance of their bodies for the other two to explore, to possess.  They knew time
was short and the hunters would find them any day and were determined to savor every night, every
minute, every caress, embrace, violation…

Each morning, Natasha would spend some time choosing what kind of dress she would wear.  As she
did not know when the hunters would press home, she was determined to die properly dressed,
something subtle yet provocative.  She loved white as she dreamed of her breasts being chosen as
targets and blood would dyed her dress crimson.  She also decided she would not wear any brassiere
as her breasts were young and firm enough to go without it.  She would also choose for Constance,
something more mature but equally sexy; a black lingerie with a revealing low-cut sweater perhaps, in
burgundy red.

Every morning became a ritual, to prepare themselves for the unexpected.  Who knows?  They may
come this very day and catch them unaware.  The last thing they wanted is sudden panic and being
shot down like frightened dogs.

But nothing happened.  Late summer had turned to early fall and the day was becoming cooler.  The
rustling sound of leaves outside the lodge sometimes kept them up at night.  On one of such nights,
Natasha thought she had heard something outside and she rose from bed and walked to the window, a
white sheet covering her tits.  Henri and Constance were still fast asleep in each other’s arms.  
Natasha opened the French window and inhaled the crispy mountain air.  If there was indeed a sniper
waiting outside, she would die on the spot, a red hole on the sheets and her body would tumble
forward, overhanging on the window sill, her cascade of light blonde hair brushing the outside wall.  
She closed her eyes and wished it to happen.  But only the pale moonlight found its mark on her young
trembling body.

The night passed without incident.


It was Natasha who noticed the stranger around the street corner on one of their shopping trips to the
nearby village. She went alone that day as Constance was not feeling that well and Henri had decided
to stay behind.  He was a mere boy in his late teens, all innocence on that freckled face.  He had smiled
at her and she had nodded.  By instinct, she knew they had finally found them.  She walked straight up
to the stranger.

“Are you looking for someone?”

The young man was startled and still beaming his angelic smile, he denied.  

She smiled.  “In case you are looking for me, I live just a few miles along the road.”  She made it sound
like a flirt.  

The young man blushed, turned around and disappeared around the corner.

She rode her bicycle back to the lodge and kept her silence.  She felt the excitement of knowing the
secret alone, that their deaths were imminent and she was the only one who knew about it.  She went
into the bathroom where a tall mirror stood and there, took off her clothes and masturbated.  She
thought it must be the last time she would experience climax and this heighted her sensuality, took her
to a height she never experiences before.

She chose her dress carefully, a haute-neck of white that would accentuate her body curves, then
walked back into the room where Henri and his sister were still resting in each other’s arms, naked.  
She knew Constance had faked illness so that she could have Henri alone.  She did not care.

But she was disappointed.  For three days and nights, nothing happened.  May be she was mistaken.  
May be the young man had nothing got to do with it….


They came just when she felt let down.

She was playing the piano, an etude by Chopin when she heard a commotion outside.  She finished the
last few notes, closed the lid of the piano and walked outside to the small garden at the rear of the
lodge.  And there they were; four men, pistols in hands.  The young man was with them.  Henri and
Constance stood there, hand in hand, resignation on their faces.

One man pointed his pistol at her, to ensure she would not scream, though even if she had, there
seemed no possibility of anyone hearing it.  She remained calm.   Only the heaving of her breasts
under the white woolen pullover betrayed a certain excitement.

“Can you shoot us near the marsh?” she asked.

The men were a bit surprised at her nonchalant attitude.  They looked at each other and then nodded.
The three of them were marched outside the lodge.

Once they arrived at the edge of the marsh, they handed Henri one of the prepared spades.  He began
to dig, together with two men.  The young man whom Natasha had met the other day and one other
stayed put with ready guns.  When the digging was done, they made Henri take off his leather jacket.  
He was in his white shirt and the top buttons were undone, revealing his broad chest.  They tied his
hands behind him, made him kneel and shot him three times at his back.  Henri’s body jolted a few
times and then it rolled into the shallow grave he had himself helped to prepare.  Constance was then
taken to where Henri was killed and she too knelt down and allowed them to tie her wrists.  One of the
men used a scarf to blind-fold her, not realizing she was blind anyway.  Natasha felt her blood rising in
excitement as the breasts of Constance rose and fell in anticipation.  There were two cracking sounds
and Constance joined her fallen brother.

“Please,” The young man whom she met motioned her to go over to the brim with his pistol. “Don’t
make it hard for us.”

She shook her head.  At first, they thought she was scared but then realized she was wearing a calm
smile on her face.

“I want to die in front of that low wall over there.”

“As you wish.” The young man replied.

She walked up to the very spot she had chosen on the very first day she came here.  The white wall
reached only half her height but tall enough to catch the blood that would be spurting over it once she
was shot.  She looked like an angel in her white pullover and the checkered mini-skirt.  She was also
wearing a pair of black laced up boots.

The young man tied her wrists behind her back.

“Touch me.” She whispered into his ear.

He looked up in surprise but used the back of his hand to trace the contours of her breasts.  She was
not wearing a brassiere and her breasts were soft and her nipples had gone hard.  She could feel the
insides of her thighs going damp and knew her purple color panty was already in a mess.  He offered to
blind-fold her but she turned her head aside to refuse.  

“You are a very brave woman.” He said.

“Thank you.” She smiled and kissed him lightly on his cheek.  A thought ran through her mind.  Under
another circumstance, she might let him make love to her.  

He joined his team and pulled out his pistol.  She was relieved.  They were all aiming at her tits.  She
took one deep breath and arched her backbone so that her breasts were pushed forward for them.

She smiled.
They fired.

The flick of her eyes showed her shock and pain as the bullets drilled into her chest.  She staggered
backwards, hitting the low wall and then she looked down to see her white pullover soiled by her own
blood.  They started with small areas and then spread until both her breasts were covered, as if she
was wearing a red brassiere over the white pullover.  Her knees refused to buckle yet and she starred
at her executioners.  The men fired again, this time aiming at her abdomen.  The impact threw her back
and upon impact with the wall, she sank onto her knees for a short while before falling to the side.  She
writhed for a few seconds, eyes turned dreamy, her mouth slightly open as if she wanted to say
something.  But no words could come out, only blood.  The young man walked over, placed the muzzle
of his pistol at the back of her head and pulled the trigger.

She felt the shock as the bullet drilled through her brain, coming out of her forehead.  There was little
blood, fortunately as the caliber of the pistol was not large.  She felt he reached for her pulse and
pronounced her dead, though she could still hear what was being said.  She felt her body being turned
over so that she could face the cloudy sky.  The young men put his gun into his pocket, then took hold
of her heels and dragged her towards the grave.  She was sure he was aware of the color of her panty
and she was happy that she had chosen a sexy purple.  When he reached the edge of the grave, he did
not dump her in as they had done the other two.  Without knowing why, he removed her white pullover
and her mini-skirt, tore away the purple panty and allowed only the high boots to remain in place.  He
stared at the punctured breasts, the holes in her abdomen for a long time, as if to memorize it.  After a
few minutes, he gave the body a shovel and it rolled into the pit, landing near her lover’s.  She could
hear sound of spades and the next moment, the earth and dirt came pouring down.  The last thing she
saw was the lips of Constance, red as her blood….

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Comment from: Nastassja
Date: February 26, 2012

Hitomi, you never cease to impress me. This story is a departure from your
historical works, and sometimes when a writer goes out of the framework of the
major body of their work, it shows. But "The Condemned" is written in a tight,
clear, modern style, which still retains your strong characterization and poetic
descriptive talents. That is really something.

I was of course tickled to see a "namesake" of my own name, Natasha, in the
story...and beyond that I was fascinated by her character. Her clear-minded
fatalism and sexualization of the death experience had me rapt. Less of a heroic
figure than many of the women you write about, but I was entranced by her all
the more for that, as I found myself more able to identify with her (rather than
"looking up in inspiration"). Don't get me wrong, I so admire the work that you do
with your authorship to further the concept of strong and heroic women. It may
be the thing I admire most about your work. But I was able to put myself inside of
Natasha's skin.

The death scene itself is not overtly sexual, but I found it intensely hot -- your
descriptions layered themselves right into my own emotional/physical response.
And this last line:

The last thing she saw was the lips of Constance, red as her blood….

Wow. Stunning, sexual, powerful. You really are amazing.


Comment from: Hitomi
Date: February 27, 2012

Thanks, Nastassja.

And special thanks to Othello for posting this and choosing a great pic to go
along with it.

The Condemned was written some time ago.  I ran across a picture of a lonely
villa by the lakeside on the internet and was so captivated by the mood that I
wrote this story in an afternoon.  It came out better than I expected.  I am so glad
you like it.  As you said, it is a bit different from my other stories in theme.  Well, I
guess we should always avoid boredom through over-repetition.

Thanks again.  


Comment from: Nighthawk
Date: February 28, 2012


Will I see that you have done it again, filled my night with wonderful prose.

I hope that you never get tired of my raving about your work, because I love your

And I have for a very long time now, as always I thank you for this. Another great


Comment from: Hitomi
Date: February 29, 2012


Call it my vanity.  But how can I ever be "tired" of your support?  It is all music to
my ears (though I do not mind criticism as well.)