The following dialogue is from a seventeenth century publication by an anonymous writer, and will serve as an introduction to my story:
Death: Fair lady, lay your costly robes aside, No longer may you glory in your pride; Take leave of all your carnal vain delight ... I'm come to summon you away this night!
Lady: What bold attempt is this? pray let me know from whence you come, and whither I must go? Must I, who am a lady, stoop or bow to such a pale-faced visage? Who art thou?
Death: Do you not know me? Well! I tell thee, then, it's I that conquer all the sons of men! No pitch of honour from my dart is free; my name is Death! Have you not heard of me?
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Note: It is important to note that no one is
killed
in this story; any passing from this 'mortal coil' that occurs is from natural causes. Death, just like love and sex is a part of life. The personification of 'Death' in the story is as a messenger—a guide. Please enjoy:
~ ~ ~
Present day, in a large city:
She steps out of the shower in her palatial uptown townhouse. Angela is beautiful. She is tall ... and what you might consider statuesque. As she bends down to dry her long slender legs, her ample breasts slip out of her dressing gown. Although she is alone, she smooths her hands over them to push them back in. Touching them feels good to her, and she brushes her fingers over her nipples, moaning softly to herself.
Angela is rich, or rather, her father is rich and she is living on a generous trust set up by him. She is a sometimes model, but at twenty-five is getting a little old for the business and she does not work very hard at it. She is vain and very proud of her body and her looks: her silky dark brown hair, her beautiful emerald eyes, her long slender and silky legs, and her large firm breasts.
She is going out later, but does not have a date; she is on the prowl tonight, and is trying to decide where to start ... which upscale club. Turned-on by her touches to her breasts, she moves her hand down over her stomach, and slides a long slender finger onto her crotch, massages her clit, and slips it up inside her. She lets out a gasp from the pleasurable feeling of her soft squishy insides.
She strokes herself just deeply enough to give herself a little shudder. She feels a warm glow spreading up to her stomach from her autoeroticism.
"God! That feels so fucking good!" she says to herself, trying to regain control of her breathing.
Angela is not a bad person, and she treats the people around her fairly. She is just ... aimless. She has had things handed to her all of her life, and dear Daddy is doing her no favors by financing her vapid lifestyle.
She dries her hair with a large fluffy towel, shakes it loose, and sits at her dressing table to put on her face for the evening. As she puts powderpuff to cheek, she feels an icy chill running up her spine ... and a feeling ... like she is not alone. As she swivels around on her upholstered stool she sees a ... a presence.
She recoils so quickly as she stands and braces herself against the table that she pushes her face powder, body lotion, and an expensive vial of perfume onto the floor. She sees what looks like a man. He is tall, and handsome by human standards, with jet-black hair, and black eyes. She admires his powerful built, but something inside her ... something she does not fully understand ... tells her that he is not human.
"Wh-who are you? What are you doing here? What do you want from me? She asks, frightened by the presence. She grabs a heavy bottle of toilet water to use as a weapon if needed.
He smiles and steps forward and as he does, Angela raises her weapon. He stops and raises his hand in a gesture to tell her that the bottle is not necessary for her defense. She lowers the bottle without looking where it is going, it falls over and rolls off her table.
He steps forward again, and in a soft but cold voice asks,
"Which question shall I answer first, my dear?"
"Let's start with who the hell you are!"
"Well, let's see; I have been known by many names over the centuries. The romans called me 'Mors,' and to the Aztecs I was 'Santa Muerte.' 'Azrael,' 'Kronos,' 'Thanatos,' or 'Grim Reaper' ... have you never heard of me Angela my dear? I am Death!"
Angela's blood runs cold in her veins and she shudders at his frightening declaration. She suddenly notices that in her haste to rise from her stool, a long shapely leg is peering out from her silk dressing gown, all the way to her hip. She sees the dark stranger noticing also, and pulls her robe closed over to cover it.
"You are very lovely, my dear!" the cold voice says, as he takes his black suit coat off, and carefully folds it over the back of a tufted chair near him. Angela gathers her courage to ask another question of the mysterious stranger.
"Okay, question number two: Why are you here?" Angela is not sure she wants to know the answer to that question, but she is used to negotiating for what she wants, and feels that whatever it is, she might be able to make a deal. Because she is gorgeous and rich, she feels that she has a lot with which to bargain.
"It is my sad duty to take you with me this night, my lovely Angela!" said the voice.
Angela shudders as this cold message frightens her beyond the capacity to speak. After a moment, she is able to say nervously,
"B-But, I-I am so-so young. I am only, ah, Twenty-one, and still have so much life to live. May I not at least one more evening?" Angela has tears welling up in her beautiful emerald eyes.
"Angela, you are twenty-five, not twenty-one, and you will not need to go anywhere tonight." He says.
"I am rich. I have money, gold and jewels. They are all yours if you will take them, and seize instead, some poor wretch who is old, tired, and weary of living. There must be a hopeless prisoner longing for release from life, or someone in so much grief at the loss of a loved one, that death would be a welcomed friend."
"Your jewels mean nothing to me my dear; they cannot buy you freedom. Your Father is a fine and honorable man, but he did you no favors allowing you to depend on your wealth to solve all of your problems. The message I have for you tonight is not transferable ... I cannot cause your death, nor can I do anything to cancel it. There are lonely and wretched souls in the world to be sure, but my message tonight is not for them, it is for you and you alone my dear."
