Daniel Guy's Blog

by Daniel Guy There’s a luxury hotel few people know about, and it is situated on a small island two hundred miles out in the Indian Ocean. It is a place where people go to die.  Imagine a luxury resort, with a fabulous restaurant and tastefully furnished wooden chalets, tucked among the trees, lining a beautiful white sanded beach. You go to Paradise Island on the understanding you will not be leaving. You take all your cash with you. You stay till the money is spent, so either you find your own way of dying, or they do it for you. This is made very clear. When you arrive you sign an agreement to say that you will ‘check yourself out’ as the management euphemistically put it, or trained staff employed by the hotel will be obliged to assist you. Guests are assured that the process would be quick and painless, but few hang around long enough to verify this. Whatever guests decide to do, Paradise Island is a place where they are sure to enjoy their final days. The resort pri

by Daniel Guy Le Centre Pompidou in Paris is the venue for this year’s Findus International Contemporary Art Prize, and as warm August afternoon sunshine beats down on the public square outside the gallery, journalists and crowds of curious tourists stand about. There’s a palpable buzz of excitement in the air. Inside the gallery, the world’s art critics are gathered, dressed as stylishly as they can, about to view for the first time the ten selected final entries for the award, while upstairs in a smoke-filled room the judges are still trying to reach a decision, for the winner is shortly to be announced.  Everyone everywhere is talking about this year’s competition because of one particular work of art. The piece, titled ‘Homme Nu Assis’ has been described by a critic in The London Times as ‘…the most disgusting thing I have ever seen,’ while the front page of the Washington Post has a photograph of the work and above it the headline ‘Modern Art - In A Trash Bag Where It B

by Daniel Guy Steph drives fast along the autobahn in her new silver Porsche. The Bavarian sun is shining bright against her face, though her beautiful deep blue eyes are hidden by expensive gold rimmed sunglasses. Lying across the back seat is Marc, her slave. He’s wearing white shorts and teeshirt, his hands are cuffed behind his back and his ankles are cuffed as well. A red ball gag is firmly strapped in his mouth. He lies inside a large clear plastic sack. (Don’t worry. He can breathe, Steph has made sure of that.) She is looking forward to her weekend in the country, meeting up with her two very best friends, Katja and Loretta. Once a year the three of them meet up, and each time their behaviour slips back to the hedonistic university days ten years past, when they first met. This year’s reunion has been talked about for months, and it promises to be particularly decadent, since all three are currently unattached, and free to do whatever they like.  Many ideas and the

by Daniel Guy Robert stands at the window of his converted barn, looking down the narrow tree-lined track leading to the road. He glances at gold watch strapped to his wrist. Delivery hours between one and five, they said and now it’s five exactly. His mouth is dry. He’s drunk a bottle of wine already. His cock is hard and his hands are shaking.  A van turns into the driveway. Two men in blue overalls open the back of their van and bring a large rectangular cardboard box to his door. They lean it against the wall of his porch and one of them smiles at Robert, standing at the door.   Hi there. Mr Williams?  Here we are. Alexis, mark three model. There’s some tape inside so you can seal the box up when you’ve finished. We collect at five o’clock tomorrow. Can you just sign here, sir? As the sound of the van’s departure fades, Robert stares down at the box, left on the floor of his lounge. He kneels down beside it and begins to pull off the thick silver tape sealing the f