Short Story – The Reaper’s Rope

Hello, my Freaky Darlings!

I have a brand new short story for you…

The Reaper’s Rope

The rope snapped taut. His feet danced as the noose tightened around his throat. As he struggled to breathe, he wished the Hangman had placed the knot a few inches to the left. His neck would have broken instantly, and his suffering would be over. If only he’d had the money to bribe the fucker, but the sadistic bastard would probably still have given him a slow death even if he had given him the cash he demanded of all the condemned. He wasn’t known for his mercy.

The dying man’s vision began to fade, but he could still hear the priest drone on and on about salvation and the fires of hell. Listening to the hypocrite was probably the worst punishment they could have inflicted on him and the other inmates awaiting their turn. His lungs burned in their desperation for air.

“You shouldn’t have slept with the Hangman’s wife,” a voice whispered from the shadows.

“Maybe,” the dying man replied. “But she spreads her legs so willingly. I couldn’t help myself.”

A chuckle came in reply.

“But if you’d resisted the temptation to stick your poxy cock inside her you wouldn’t be dying this slowly. The Hangman is an expert. He can draw your suffering out for hours, and since he now has the pox because of you, he’s taking his revenge.”

“Oh,” the dying man said. “That explains it then.”

“This is taking too long,” the voice said after what seemed an eternity. “I’m on a schedule.”

“I’m sorry my death is inconveniencing you.”

The voice sighed.

“So who are you?” the dying man asked.

“Death,” the voice said as it stepped out of the shadows.

Death didn’t look like what the dying man had expected. He wasn’t entirely sure what he’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been the woman who stood in front of him. She was dressed as any woman of nobility in their city would dress. Her black velvet bodice displayed her bosom to perfection. If she bent over a little, he’d see just a hint of her rose coloured nipple. If he hadn’t been dying, he would have tried to get her to spread her legs too. His cock was rock hard because of the slow asphyxiation, unfortunately not because of the thought of shagging death.

“Judging by your tongue hanging out and heart rate, I believe it’s almost over,” Death said looking at him as though she were examining a struggling insect while tapping an impatient foot. “You could do me a favour and hurry things along though.”

“Seriously?” the dying man said. “Are you really asking me to die faster?”

“If you don’t mind,” Death said. “Or I could come back in a few hours, but then you would have to take that long to die, and it would probably be an excruciating experience. It’s entirely up to you.”

“Can the Hangman and the Priest and the Judge hear us talking or see you?” the dying man asked.

“No,” Death replied. “All they can hear is your groaning and making other foul sounds.”

“Foul sounds?” The dying man asked.

“Yes,” Death replied. “Your body is shutting down slowly and with that comes certain disgusting things, like the fact that you just shat your pants. It’s one of the few unpleasant things about my job.”

“Please tell me the Hangman has to clean it up,” the dying man said.

Death smiled and nodded.

“That makes it almost worth it,” he said.

“So,” Death said. “Do you really want to keep hanging around or are you planning on speeding this up?”

“I see what you did there,” the dying man said. “Very clever.”

“I try,” Death said with a smile.

“I’m not really in a rush,” the dying man said. “I’m enjoying our chat.”

“Are you afraid?” Death asked.

“Of course not,” the dying man said. “Satan himself can’t scare me.”

Death laughed.

“Really?” Death asked. “You sure about that?”

“So,” the dying man said. “How long have you been doing this whole Death thing?”

“Since the beginning,” Death said. “Sometimes, like now, it feels even longer than that.”

“Why are you in such a rush?” the dying man asked. “Don’t you ever just want to slow down and enjoy a good conversation?”

“I think we have very different definitions of what a good conversation is,” Death said.

“Perhaps, but you’re still going to have an eternity ahead of you to reap the souls of the dead and dying, so you might as well take a break from it all and have a chat with me.”

Death sighed.

“I understand that for you this moment is monumental and you need to draw it out and that you’re desperate to put off going to your final destination, but for me, it’s just another Tuesday,” Death said. “So if you don’t mind, I really don’t feel like having an in-depth conversation with just another murderer trying to postpone the inevitable.”

“That’s a little harsh, isn’t it?” the dying man said.

“You are a murderer, aren’t you?” Death said.

“I don’t like that word,” the dying man said.

Death sighed again.

“What’s it like?” the dying man asked.

“What’s what like?” Death asked.

“You know, Hell.”

Death sighed once more. It was a long drawn out, exasperated sigh.

“It’s cold and boring,” she said.

“Don’t lie,” he said.

“I’m Death. I’m the most honest thing in this life.”

Death came closer and smiled. He had to admit, she had a beautiful smile. He smiled back.

“You ready to go now?” she asked.

The dead man nodded. Death took his hand in her’s. Her touch was colder than he’d expected. He tried to pull his hand away, but her grip was firm. Death wouldn’t let him go as they walked away from his hanging corpse and the Priest who still droned on about his salvation and damnation. The dead man looked down and noticed he was naked. At least his cock was no longer hard, although he wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about the fact that his penis would probably never be hard again.

“That’s the least of your worries,” another voice said.

Death smiled at him for the last time and disappeared.

He was alone in the dark and the cold. The noose once again around his neck, and he found himself dangling in the pitch blackness of eternity.

“Is this it?” the dead man asked the nothingness.

No reply came. There was only the silence, the dark and that fucking rope.

The dead man screamed.


As some of you may have noticed, at the end of these short stories I’ve added a tip jar. This tip jar is sort of my version of a Patreon thing. It’s so that I can keep writing these stories for you and hopefully earn a bit of money so that I can pay my mortgage and feed my two cats. Unlike with Patreon, you don’t have to pay every month or for every story. You only have to ‘tip’ me if you want to and you only have to ‘tip’ a small amount. It’s entirely up to you. You can even say, “Fuck You! I’m not paying you. These stories are supposed to be free.” That’s cool too. You don’t have to pay anything to read these stories.

But anyway …

My Cheeky Tip Jar

If you would like to support my writing and help feed my cats, please leave a small ‘tip’ of $2.99. Thank you so much for your support!



Well … That’s it for now. Until next time …


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3 thoughts on “Short Story – The Reaper’s Rope

  1. Pingback: Author Reading – The Reaper’s Rope | Joan De La Haye

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