Standing on the stool, Sandy stared at her reflection in the mirror. Sheíd never considered anything this drastic, that was until the headaches started. At first, sheíd just written them off, but theyíd grown steadily worse. Finally, she called her doctor and a CT scan confirmed his worst fears, an already large and growing inoperable brain tumor. She had perhaps six months at most, even with massive amounts of chemo.

Deciding to call in sick, Sandy left early this morning, stopping only to pick up the painkillers her doctor had prescribed on her way out of town. Heading north, along the Maine coast to her secluded cabin Sandy stopped at the local store, picking up some groceries and a few bottles of wine for the weekend and headed up to the cabin as it started to rain.

By the time I reached the cabin it was pouring, the short run from my car to the cabin door left me chilled and soaked to the skin. Setting the two grocery bags on the kitchen table I went upstairs to change out of my wet clothes. Pulling on an oversized tee shirt I stared out the window at the rain, all thoughts of putting on that little black dress with matching heels and going down to one of resortís beach-front nightclubs forgotten.

Trying to ignore my throbbing headache, I went back downstairs, lit the fireplace and putting away the groceries, opened a bottle of wine. Suddenly remembering the painkillers in my purse, I opened the prescription bottle and washed two of the pills down with half a glass of wine.

Hours later, Iíd just opened a second bottle of wine and was staring at my reflection the window, listening to the sound of the rain, as I considered my options. First, if I did chemo, in six months, Iíd be lying in some hospice, likely in a drugged induced coma, waiting to die. Or, if I refused the chemo, after a few months Iíd still by lying in a hospice bed, in a drugged induced coma, waiting to die. Shuddering at the thought of dying like that, I suddenly realized there was a third option.

Smiling for the first time in days, I set aside my empty wine glass, picked up the almost full bottle of wine and headed toward the bedroom, where I retrieved my black high heels, grabbed the cuffs and vibrator from the nightstand draw, and headed upstairs to the cabinís attic.

Forgoing the lights, I lit a few candles instead. Tonight, I planned to indulge in my darkest fetish, autoerotic asphyxiation. For as long as I can remember, Iíve fantasized about death by hanging, the seductive way the noose slowly tightens around my throat as I inevitably struggle until the deliciously bitter end.

I used to come up to this attic at our summer cabin while my parents were out on my dadís lobster boat. Iíd found a length of white nylon rope. I think it was a spare mooring line for the boat, thirty feet of autoerotic asphyxiation bliss. Tying a hangmanís noose, Iíd throw the other end of the rope up and over one of the ceiling joists. Then setting a short footstool beneath the noose, Iíd tie a small knot at the other end of the rope, one just big enough to keep my hands from slipping off, then Iíd step off the footstool to hang.

Sadly, the brief summer months spent at the cabin were the only time I could explore my autoerotic interests. All that changed my senior year in college, when my parents retired and moving to Florida, sold me the cabin. Moving out of the dorms and into the cabin over intersession, I was now free to indulge in my darkly erotic interests. It also gave me a more discrete shipping address, which I immediately took advantage of, ordering several pairs of six-inch heels, a large vibrator and a pair of handcuffs from an online fetish boutique.

It took a little time to learn how to walk in those tall heels, but I loved the way the heels looked. I also loved the submissive feel of those handcuffs and the way I looked with my wrists locked behind my back. The vibrator, not so much, while I loved the feel of it vibrating inside me, the moment, I stepped off the stool the damn thing would always slip out and fall to the floor. A little experimentation led to ordering several pairs of satin thong panties to keep that vibrator securely in place inside me.

By the time I graduated from college, Iíd hung myself hundreds of times, each time hanging until I was on the verge of losing consciousness, then letting go of the rope. Over the years, I gradually made improvements to my breath play erotica, replacing the handcuffs, which always left bruises on my wrists, with a set of custom ordered steel manacles that fit my wrists perfectly. I also tested variations of the hangmanís knot, gradually increasing the time I could hang to almost thirty minutes before I needed to release the rope. I also made minor adjustments in the length of the rope, so that in the final stages of the noose tightening around my neck, the toes of my high heels would be just an inch away from the floor.

Then, one night it happened. My lungs felt like they were on fire, and I was blissfully on the verge of blacking out, so I let go of the rope, and nothing happened. I was still hanging. I knew I was close to losing conscious as I desperately tried to grab the rope to attempt to free it, but it kept slipping through my fingers. The next thing I remember was waking up on the floor with the early morning sunlight shining through the window.

In the years since, Iíve never figured out what the rope caught on, or why it came loose before I died, but I havenít indulged in my autoerotic asphyxiation fetish since that fateful night. That is until tonight. Of course, tonight Iíve made a few changes. First, the vibrator inside me is larger and significantly more powerful than that original one. Second, a few years back, as a present to myself on my twenty-ninth birthday I had breast implant surgery done. My breasts went from barely a B-cup to a full and mostly over-flowing D-cup. And finally, the end of the rope isnít hanging down for me to grab with my hands, tonight itís tightly tied to the ceiling joist above me. This time, Iím going to hang for real.

Standing on that stool, with the noose tight around my throat, I stared at my reflection in the mirror, the same mirror that Iíd watched my reflection in since my first autoerotic asphyxiation experience, as I finished that bottle of wine and contemplated my fate. Then, dropping the empty wine bottle to the floor, I removed the vibrators wireless remote from the front of my thong and dialing the power setting to the maximum, switched it on. Tossing aside the remote, I finished securing my wrist behind my back as I felt my first orgasm of the evening rapidly approaching, and as I climaxed, I stepped off the stool.

Staring at my reflection, I could feel the noose already starting to tighten around my throat as I delightfully fought against the inevitable. I could feel my second orgasm rapidly building when my frantically reaching legs inadvertently kicked that footstool far beyond the reach of my desperately stretching toes. I could feel my nipples growing erect in the atticís cool night air, my significantly more endowed breasts swaying invitingly as I climaxed. In the end, I lasted for over thirty agonizing minutes, and through over two dozen orgasms, before I finally died. Ironically, what happened after came as a complete surprise.

It turns out heaven and hell both exist, and suicide is a mortal sin. At least, thatís what that demon who put this noose around my neck said before he tied my wrists behind my back and kicked the stool out from beneath my feet. Imagine an eternity, slowly strangling as you hang from the noose, no escape, no hope of death, forever. Donít tell the demons, if they knew just how much Iím enjoyng this, they might just consign me to heaven...