When I first learned that I was dying, I was in shock. I was only twenty-seven. An inoperable brain tumor, how could this be happening to me? Then, I decided that if I were going to die, it would be on my own terms. It was finally time to live out my darkest erotic fantasy, autoerotic decapitation.

It took some research, mainly on the dark web, that led me to him, the Toymaker. At first, he was dubious about my intent, but my resolve finally won him over. On Thursday morning, his people showed up and installed the decapitation device, called a mark three for some unexplained reason, down in my basement. They showed me how the machine operated, how to set the delay, and how to activate it.

So, here I am. It’s late Sunday night. I set the delay for one minute and pressed the activation switch. The hydraulic piston that drives the razor-sharp blade downward with enough force to decapitate an elephant takes about fifteen seconds to pressurize. Sixty seconds later, the blade will snap down, decapitating me.

I sank to my knees, wearing nothing but my favorite red six-inch “fuck me” heels, and leaning forward, placed my neck in the decapitator’s open neck stock before crossing my wrists submissively behind my back. The only warning before the decapitator’s razor-sharp blade fatally removed my head was the faint metallic click of the blade’s restraining bolts retracting.

The Toymaker assured me that within thirty minutes of my death, his team would arrive to dispose of my body, remove the decapitator, and clean up the bloody mess. In hindsight, I should have asked questions about disposing of my body. I’d assumed I’d be cremated or buried somewhere in a shallow grave. In my wildest dreams, I’d never imagined waking up at someplace called the Resort, my inoperable brain tumor cured, and ending up as an indentured Resort companion for the next ten years.

Who knew that your darkest masochistic fantasies could come true even after death? Welcome to the Resort...