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Erotic Death Tales by Hitomi
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                                                 "The Final Hours of Beatrice Cenci"                   "Ines, Queen After Death"
The Last Night of Clytemnestra

I woke with a scream.
Cold sweat drenched every single part of my body; the cold seeped back under the skin, into the very
marrow of my bones.
Aegisthus stirred beside me.
“What is the matter? Have you suffered from another bad dream again?”
“Yes, a horrible one.” I replied, my eyes still staring at the empty space beyond the end of our gigantic
bed: a bed we had shared for the last seventeen years.
And before that…  I shuddered.
“What did you dream, my Queen?” Aegisthus had sat up in bed now and put an arm around my bared
shoulder, for my chiton had slipped from it during my fright, exposing one of my breasts.  His hands
were gentle, unlike the one before him, much too gentle. They were hands of a lover, not a warrior, or
“I saw him, in blood.”
I heard my lover made a hard swallow.
“But he is dead.  He has been dead for seven years, my love. If he is to return and avenge as a ghost,
he would have done that long time ago.  Ease your mind and sleep.”
I let him pulled me back upon the pillow which nested my head.  To soothe me of my terror, he began to
caress me over the breasts which had milked for so many suckling mouths. In a way, I was blessed, that
despite my age and frequent motherhood, I was able to retain a body form many years my junior.  
Aegisthus circled his fingers around the aurora and on other nights, he would carry on his love making
till I begged for mercy.  But he was spent tonight and before long, I could hear his gentle snoring, his
palms still cupping one of my breasts.
I lifted his arm and returned it to his side, freeing its weight from my still trembling heart.
I rose, pulled my chiton back in place and threw a flowing robe over my shoulders before I tiptoed out
of the room.  The two guards outside the huge bronze door stood at attention, separating their long
spears for their queen to pass. I stole a glance at them: strong young men at the prime of their lives,
arms that could fight lions bare-handed.  It should be reassuring to have such sentinel for protection.  I
did not feel safe, however.  May be it was that strange look in their eyes.  I did not know if it was just my
imagination.  I smelled treason in the air and a coldness down my spine. I tried my best to maintain my
royal composure, holding my chin high and glided across the marble tiles as I made for a colonnade to
the right.  I stopped once I turned the corner, bracing myself against a wall to catch back my breath.
What am I? Their Queen? Or an adulteress, usurper, murderer of the late King in his very house, a
woman wielding power as if a man? I knew the price to be paid for any of these roles.  Death!  Merciless
brutal death!  They knew.  They did not do it because regicide, even against an usurper queen, would
bring wrath from the gods.
They were waiting, for one who had the right to do this, to avenge spilled blood…
“You should have let me kill him. “ Aegisthus had told me repeatedly.
“You will regret for this one day.” He said.
“May be. But I will not have the blood of my own son on my hands. Even beasts would not harm their
own young.!”
But I knew better of course.  Not all parents were benevolent.
I could still remember that angelic face of her: beautiful, happy, a contented bride-to-be, being tricked
by her own father to the altar where her throat was cut.  
“Mother! Save me! Mother!” I heard her last cry for help. And I was powerless to stop her being
slaughtered, like a fowl, just to fulfill his ambition to lead the Greek force across the sea and his glory
in Troy!  
Why my daughter!?  It was Menelaus whose wife was abducted.  Why not sacrifice one of his women to
appease the goddess for fair wind?  Why me?
Through tales told me by stranger’s tongue, I could see her being stripped of her bridal garments, her
young virgin beauty laid bare to all present eyes.  I could see the despair in her eyes as her neck was
angled, the bow made by her head with its golden fleece of hair and the torso making a perfect
resemblance of Artemis’s tool of hunt.
And he came forward, Agamemnon, King of Mycenae, High King of the Greek states, my husband, her
father, knife in hand, cold-hearted, cold-blooded, placing the blade across that slender neck of my
I could see the blood rush out, spill; I could smell it, salty as the water of the raging sea; I could feel her
pain, her disappointment at my failure to rescue her, her despair to be forced to give up her young life
for a cause that sent men on a thousand ships to ten years of slaughter, with so few to return!
“Revenge! “ I heard her shriek, in silence; her voice only audible for my ears.
I saw her fall, naked, unpitied, next to that pile of stones dyed red with my daughter’s blood.

In revenge, I took in Aegisthus, his cousin, as my lover during his absence.
I cursed him to fall on the plains of Troy, his body tramped a thousand times to shreds by Trojan
chariots, his naked torso fed to carrions!
But he survived.
And returned with a mistress: Cassandra, princess of Troy.
Aegisthus panicked and urged me to flee with him.
I did what I had to do.
A robe and an axe.
I avenged my daughter when her slayer-father was in the bath.
The water ran red.
The Trojan woman came in, saw the slain king.  She did not scream, nor tried to flee, but just knelt,
open wide her arms and lowered her neck.
The axe rose and fell a second time.
Justice was done!
Another round of seeking justice had begun.

I walked along the corridor that lined the tall walls Mycenae.  From here, despite it was night, I could
see the fair hills with the aide of a full moon.  How fair a land this was! And ruled by a woman for
seventeen years, ten in the absence of her husband, and seven in the name of her lover. Aegisthus
was no king-material.  Perhaps it was better this way.
May be I should have killed Orestes! And her sister Electra too.  I knew that girl hated me, though she
was of my own flesh and blood.  But how could I?  No, I refused to be another beast to devour my own
broodings  One in a family was more than enough.
I turned and looked to the east.  There, hidden around the corner of the griffin gates was his tomb: the
tomb of Agamennon, commander of the Greek expeditionary force, conqueror of Troy and his captive,
Cassandra.  For seven years they had lain their in their death-slumber.  They must have been waiting
for justice: justice for them.
I could feel it.  It would not be long.
A shadow.
This time, I did not shriek, not even feeling afraid.
He looked so much like his father: tall, handsome in a cruel way, and eyes unforgiving, without pity.
“So, Orestes! You have finally come for me.” I said.
“No, mother, not only for you.  For him, too.” He said, and raised his left hand, The head of Aegisthus
was still dripping blood. His eyes were wide open, in disbelief, in shock, his tongue sticking out of a
mouth which had engulfed my breasts in ecstasy so many night. It was as if he was still pleading for
mercy and the whole thing was so comical that I could not suppress a laugh.
“I am going to kill you, mother.”
I nodded, let my robe slipped onto the ground and slowly pulled down one side of my chiton, exposing
a breast.  
“So, you are going to push your sword into the breast that had once fed you?  A breast that had once
sheltered you and warmed you?”
“I am his son.  I have to do what I have to do.”
I nodded again. “Yes, Justice must be done. I pity you, though. For killing your mother, you will become
the object of justice sought. Do you understand what it means?”
He was breathing quicker now, his hand griping the hilt of that bloodied sword tightening.
“So be it then.  Come, and give me a quick end.”  I
Having let my robe drop off my shoulders onto the tiles, I open my arms to embrace him.  He backed
away a step but I would not let him lose courage.  What the gods decide, will be done.  Are we not their
humble toys? Insignificant pieces in their games in the names of justice?  
I took one more step forward and this time he did not back away.
His yell shock the night air as he rushed at me.  I could see him closing the distance, I could see his
eyes, so red, so sad…
“Argh…” The blade entered my body through my exposed breast, made a clean penetration and came
out my naked back.
I collapsed into the arms of my son, my lips touching the strong chest as I had once touched his
I could hear his dead father laughing now.
I could hear the gods laugh.
I could hear the silent weeping of Orestes, my son, my only love in this life.
I sank to my knees, body sliding backwards to free of the blade.  
The marble felt so cold.
The night was so beautiful….



Copyright Hitomi Satomi- please do not reprint in any form without permission of the author.
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Comment from: Hitomi
Date: October 29, 2011

Thanks, Chris and Othello.

I love this picture very much.


Comment from: Othello
Date: October 29, 2011

It truly is a pleasure and honor to present your work, Hitomi. Your voice is quite
unique, bringing classicism and literary power to the medium of death erotica.

Your window into the history and myth of ancient Greece fascinates me no end.
Reading them, I see how well you understand that these tales illuminate the raging
passions that run deep in all of us, even if in our modern world they are often closed
off and repressed. You have an uncanny ability to bring your writer's eye right into the
heart of those passions. Your Clytemnestra has a fierce nobility, and dignity as well (as
so many of the women you portray do). The final scene utilizes poetic technique

I could hear his dead father laughing now.
I could hear the gods laugh.
I could hear the silent weeping of Orestes, my son, my only love in this life.
I sank to my knees, body sliding backwards to free of the blade.  
The marble felt so cold.
The night was so beautiful….

The chanting cadence of the words, the visionary jumps from father to son to gods,
and then in the final moment an abstract poetic dissolve into the embrace of the night
of death...just stunning, Hitomi.

Oh, and I love the art at the head of the page too. John Collier did two memorable
portraits of Clytemnestra back around the 1880's, capturing two of her qualities--
ferocity and dignity -- just as you do in your writing. Here is the other:

...a formidable woman indeed.

I believe your works empower women, Hitomi, which is a remarkable achievement
when presented in a framework of death eros. You give them grace and strength and
hearts unafraid to embody honor and sacrifice. I truly applaud that.

Comment from: Nastassja
Date: November 1, 2011

Another amazing story, Hitomi. You bring your characters to such vivid life! I went
back and read all of your Greek-tragic stories in a row, and they make quite an impact
as you see the focus change from character to character, and yet you see others
reappear, and provide even more depth to the overall story. You seem to make subtle
alterations in your style for each as well, which I think is a very effective technique. It
makes it seem as if the "voice" for each central character carries nuances special to
them alone. Your Clytemnestra seemed more terse and hard-edged, which of course
meshed beautifully with her personality and her story. I agree with Othello, you gave
her immense, sad dignity as well, which was very moving.

Comment from: Hitomi
Date: November 3, 2011

Thank you.

Actually, I never liked Clytemnestra, until I wrote this story.  To me, she had always
been a bad wife (betraying her husband), a murderer (killing Cassandra who
committed no wrong except she was made a concubine by Agamennon), and an
usurper.  But once I put my fingers on the keyboard and started to make out the story,
I began to see things from her perspective, the agony of a mother (sending her own
daughter to her death), the fury of a wife (neglect and betrayal by her husband), the
disappointment of a weak lover.  All the cards were against her and yet she was
determined to live her life according to her choice. She did not submit to fate, nor to
an assigned position under the patriarchal system, daring do what others feared to do
(and hiding behind the shield of blaming tradition), a really remarkable woman.  I think
Aeschylus did not do her justice by portraying her a total villain.  
Throughout all those years, she must have to endure so heavy a toll in her heart:
hatred, desire for revenge (and justice), fear and a subconscious knowledge that one
day, she would have to pay for the "crime"  Inside the hard crust of a female
murderer/ruler resided the spirit of a loving mother and a woman who was willing to
decide her own way to live, and to die.
To die at the hands of her own son would be the best ending, love and atonement
merged into one.  

Sometimes, when one writes, the characters in the story will lead the pen (or
keyboard) as if they have their own story to tell and the author is no more than the
mouth-piece to pour out the narrative, a collaborator at best and even just an

Thank you for reading and of course, thank you for Chris and Othello putting this up.