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Mentally, I had checked out of the meeting.
It was Friday and it was late and getting dark outside. The meeting seemed to drag on endlessly. Those circumstances alone would be enough to make me bang my head against the table, but tonight was also my anniversary and my husband, as usual, was cooking up a nice surprise for me. Usual anniversary-celebrating protocol involved dinner, a show—maybe even some dancing—followed by the most mind-blowing of mind-blowing sex.
My boss was droning on endlessly—about what, I had no idea. My mind was preoccupied, having been stimulated from the thought of sex: When you know you’re going to get laid, everything else seems unimportant. My groin warmed and I had to fight to keep from opening and closing my thick thighs underneath the table. The phallic symbol of one of the twists on the plate of pastries that sat at the center of the table seemed to tease me. Or maybe it wasn’t the shape of the desert that was exciting me: Maybe it was the desert itself.
I was a big girl—not tall, but, you know, big. Oh, hell, I’ll say it; I was fat. At five-foot-two and one hundred and ninety pounds, I had a body built like a fire hydrant. My husband was so lean and muscular and attractive, that I often questioned why he was with a woman like me. I was short and fat, my pubic mound bulging in my pants, just above my massive thighs that seemed to stretch the fabric of my pants to near ripping point. Under my crimson-red blouse, a stomach that just seemed round and soft when I stood, became rolls of spare tires when I sat down. My c cup breasts were too small for a woman of my size and, in a world of blonde-haired-blue-eyed-beauties, my big, round, dark brown eyes and wavy dark hair seemed dull and unattractive. I did take pride in my hair though: It was naturally curly and very long—almost to my waist, good for yanking on, my husband would say.
The recollection of that now entered my mind.
I reached over the table to snatch up a crème-filled pastry amidst muffles giggles from some of my coworkers. That’s right, I thought, the fat girl’s grabbing a snack.
My boss watched me, open mouthed, as I took a bite from the pastry, holding my other hand under my mouth to prevent crème from dripping onto my blouse. The bite I took was bigger than I could handle and I contorted my face in a manner of ways, trying to pass the sugar, carbs and crème down my throat.
“Mmmm…it’s good.” The words were muffled and filtered through a mouthful of food. Yeah, if I wasn’t going to get laid anytime soon, I could do the next best thing: Eat.
But then, as if Divinely ordained, my boss threw his hands up and said, “That’s enough for tonight.” He looked in my direction. “Lena here’s making me hungry.”
I smiled. Sure, I could occasionally be as dim as a light bulb in a gas station bathroom, but I knew what was going on. I was the office’s token fat girl, the butt of everyone’s jokes and taunts, but I didn’t mind it. Hey, at least I was noticed for something.
When everyone had left the room, I sat, alone, eating my pastry. Then I took another for the road.
It was after seven and completely dark by the time I pulled into our driveway. We lived in a typical boring suburban subdivision with all the well-manicured lawns and houses all but identical to each other. House after house, block after block, street after street—it was all the same, dull, boring and lifeless.
I noticed that my husband’s truck was not in the driveway as I arrived and my heart sank as this created yet another intermission before sex. I sighed, opened the door and got out of my car—a maroon 2003 Toyota Camry, which I had lovingly nicknamed “Toytie”.
I flung my purse strap over my shoulder, closed the door and fidgeted with my keys as I walked to our front door.
All the lights were off in our home—the tick tick tick noise of the water sprinkler ratcheting in the back yard.
I closed the door behind me and flicked on the light switch.
Nothing.
Dumbly, I flicked it a few more times, as if this could make the lights work.
No luck there.
Blindly, with my hands out in front of me, I staggered through the darkness, dropped my purse on the kitchen counter and flicked on the kitchen light.
Nothing.
The refrigerator clicked and began to hum to life, causing me to about jump out of my skin.
Ah, so some of the power was still on. Probably just a breaker.
That’s when I heard footsteps coming down the stairs. I froze.
Someone else was in the house!
I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket, hugged it to my chest, and backed into the dining room, cautious that the wooden floorboards creaked in some spots.
Whoever was in the house was between the front door and me.
I hid under the dining table and watched the hulking frame of the intruder walk into the shadows of the living room.
I flipped open my phone and instead of calling 9-1-1, I called my husband.
“Shhh! Shhh! Listen to me!” I whispered, cutting off his greeting. “There’s someone in the house!”
There was a pause before he spoke. “Lena, listen to me, this is important. The man in the house, he’s going to take you, he’s going to kill you, and I’m going to watch.”
My eyes widened to the size of golf balls as I dropped the phone on the floor. Suddenly, my legs were yanked out from behind me as I screamed, digging my nails into the wood of the floor as I was hauled back, leaving gouges on the wood.
I was picked up and felt a strong, brutish, arm wrap around my thick waist. I screamed uncontrollably and a hand came up and covered my mouth. My eyes glassed over with tears as my husband’s words still rang in my ears.
He’s going to take you, he’s going to kill you, and I’m going to watch.
I was spun around, but in the darkness I couldn’t make out the face of my attacker. His hands moved all over my body, trying to pin down my flailing limbs as I shrieked. I didn’t see the punch coming, nor did I feel it, but it must have been a good one, because soon, everything went black.
When I awoke I found myself lying on my back in a strange room. I couldn’t move and could only see above me. Pipes over my head, leaked foul-smelling water that landed in drips on the cement floor. The metal roof was rusted, cobwebs clung to the beams and the whole place smelled of must and mildew.
Past the mound of my bulbous belly, I could see my black shoes sticking up. I tried to move my feet, but could not. I tried to move my hands and couldn’t. When I tried to move, I heard the rattling of chains. My wrists and ankles were shackled to the floor, but I could lift my head. I lifted my head and looked around me, suddenly wishing that I hadn’t.
I was shackled to the cold floor next to a stainless steel cart, which was covered in a manner of knives, saws, scalpels, mallets and other paraphernalia that one might see in an operating ward or butcher shop.
I wanted to cry out, but I was too numb to do it. Then, I heard the familiar sound of my husband, laughing. There was a second voice, which was muffled and indistinguishable. The sounds were coming from behind me, so I tilted my head back as far as I could, the view behind me appearing upside down. I could see a door, under which I saw shadows shuffling around in the light.
The door swung open and I saw the silhouette of a large, beastly man: My attacker, and behind him the smaller but unmistakable shape of my husband. They were in mid-conversation as they walked in.
“You didn’t tell me she was such a big bitch,” said the man.
“Why do you think I want to get rid of her?” my husband chuckled.
“I tell ya, she was a pain in the ass to drag in here. Like a goddamn walrus—” He stopped, noticing that I was conscious—“Look, who’s awake,” he said in a mocking singsong tone.
“Hi, babe.” Upside down, my husband waved at me.
My lips were dry and my voice was thick. “Wh-why are you d-doing this?”
He looked at the other man and they both laughed. “Because,” he said, looking back at me, “it’s fucking sexy.”
“God knows you should try and be sexy for him once in awhile, pig,” growled the other man.
“H-haven’t I b-been a g-good wife?” I stammered.
“No,” my husband said. “You’ve been a boring and fat wife.”
“But that body does have some advantages,” the man said.
My husband nodded. “That’s right. You will die magnificently.”
I screamed and thrashed at my restraints, the two of them laughing and mocking my screams. I finally stopped screaming, but they continued to laugh, slapping each other on the shoulder.
The man quieted down and said to my husband, “Pull up that chair. Might as well get this show on the road.”
My husband tugged a chair over to where I lay. “You don’t mind if I pull it out and jerk off, do you?” my husband asked as he sat down.
“I would expect nothing less,” said the man.
“Honey? You’re going to look so beautiful. Imagine that? You? Beautiful. Ha!” he chuckled.
“You don’t want to do this,” I said.
“No, I do,” he said. “Believe me, I do.”
The man grinned at my husband and then moved to the cart, selecting a knife so shiny with polish, that it gleamed in the dull light. “Before she gets too messy,” the man said, “mind if I have my way with her?”
“Sure,” my husband said with a shrug. “Why would I mind? Everyone else has had their way with her.”
So that’s it, I thought, he’s still bitter about that. We met when we were in college and at that time of my life, I was a bit less restrained and very liberal with my morals. Okay, okay, I was a slut. I used to wear hip hugging jeans a couple sizes too small and a cinched up shelf-lift brazier that caused my breasts to spill out of my top, while garnering attention from college guys—not insanely attractive guys, as I’ve always had a weight problem, but guys nonetheless. I was the typical fat broad you see hanging around a group of males. I was attached to none of them but slept with them all, letting them work out their kinkiest fantasies of sexual exploration on me. It was a time of sexual exploration for me as well, and out of a need for acceptance and my own curiosity, I did it all: I let them urinate on me, slap me around, call me foul and disgusting names; one guy even took me to a glory hole where I serviced complete strangers for his entertainment. I gave up my ass, took them on in groups and gave them head at the movies. By the time I met my husband, I had lived out my sexual fantasies and was ready to settle down. The things I did with those men, I didn’t do with my husband and I’ve always known, deep down, he resented me for it.
I thought about my past a lot and when he was away on business, I’d conjure up images of the things I’d done while pleasuring myself, secretly wishing to once again be someone’s whore. But, I couldn’t do it for my husband: He was too sweet, too innocent, our love too pure. But, now, laying spread eagle on a cold cement floor, my husband laughing at my peril, I felt curiously aroused by him.
My eyes never left the tip of the knife as I heard my husband’s fly unzip. I heard the rumpling of fabric and the crude, yet distinctive sound of my husband’s labored breathing as he stroked himself.
The man squatted over me. “Let’s get these clothes off of you,” he said, cutting the buttons of my blouse away with the knife.
As he did so, my stomach leaped into my throat as I had the sensation of flying up in the air. My guts rumbled, sweat broke out on my forehead, I had a persistent need to swallow, and my vision dimmed around the edges of my eyes. I felt like I was going to vomit.
My blouse was torn from me and cast aside. The man fell to me, sitting on my lower abdomen, hands massaging my breasts through the fabric of my bra.
“That’s right,” my husband said between breaths. “That’s good.”
I began to sob as a tremor quivered down the length of my body.
“You like that?” the man asked. “You like seeing my hands all over her tits?”
“Yeah, yeah,” my husband said. “Now, get rough with her. Slap her around a bit.”
The first slap split my lip and I tasted the metallic tang of blood.
“Ooh!” my husband said, “that was nice. A few more times. Harder.”
The slaps came in a quick succession—so fast and hard that after the first one, I couldn’t feel the others.
I turned my reddening face to my husband. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because it’s hot,” said, not missing a beat, his cock engorged in his hands.
“Wanna see something really hot?” asked the man with a grin. “This always gives people a hoot.” He pulled his hand back, balled it into a fist and, before I could even see it move, I was struck—vision momentarily flashed out, head rolling to the side, teeth clattering to the floor.
“Fuck!” my husband exclaimed, pumping harder. “You knocked her fucking teeth out!”
The man grinned.
“Fuck it. They were crooked anyway.”
They both laughed.
“Alright, enough of this shit,” said the man as he cut through the fabric of my pants. He ripped them from my body, my pale white thighs rippling in a combination of excitement and fear. Excitement? What the hell? Try as I may, the exhilaration was getting to me. My pussy felt warm and it tingled and throbbed. I instinctively yanked at my restraints, wanting to touch myself, but could not. I bit my lower lip, realizing that as erotic as it is to be a whore strapped the concrete, this would not end well for me.
My underwear was cut off next as the man fumbled in this pants for his dick, making remarks about my fat hairy pussy. His cock was long, fat and ugly—uncircumcised, folds of skin tapering off past the tip like the nose of an anteater. His legs slid out from under him, knife in hand, as he lay on me, preparing to push into me.
“Oh, you got to be shitting me,” he said.
“What? What?” my husband was jerking his dick like a madman. “What is it?”
“You won’t believe it, but this bitch is wet.”
He slammed into me and fucked me hard, my head bouncing off the concrete.
My husband cheered him on. “Yeah, yeah! Like that!”
Both of them were nearing orgasm.
As I was roughly assaulted, I heard my husband cry out, “cum in her mouth! Make her taste you!”
The man grunted as he rammed into me continually. “No can do, pal. This bitch is mad at us now. I ain’t sticking my pecker in her mouth. She’s likely to bite the damn thing off.”
“Well, knock out some more of her teeth then!”
I turned to my husband. “You can’t be—”
I didn’t get the rest of my words out. As the man continued to pump wildly inside of me, he reached down, grabbed a handful of my hair, yanked my head up off the floor and pummeled me countless times. As he smashed my face in, I could hear bones crack and feel teeth come loose.
“Oh fuck,” my husband screamed, “I’m gonna cum!”
“Wait for it!” the man demanded.
My vision was dim and cloudy, the capillaries in my eyes having burst, but I could still make out the outlines of my husband. He slowed his stroking.
“She still wet?” someone asked. I don’t know who. I’m in and out of consciousness. Where am I again?”
The man slipped out of me and leapt onto my face, slamming the back of my head into the concrete. Something warm and sticky formed at the base of my neck as my husband cried, “bash her fucking skull in!” I blacked out for what could only be a few seconds because when I came too, the man, squatting over my face, was easing his pulsating dick out from between my gums, the distinct taste of semen—salty, bitter, body odor-like—mixing with the blood in my mouth. He pulled all the way out, the last drops of his sperm dripping on my lips.
My chest heaved. I coughed and a gaudy pink cum-blood concoction exploded all over my face.
“What’s the matter?” the man asked, wiping sweat off his forehead. “You can’t handle my load?”
“She can take it,” my husband said. “She used to blow the football team back in college—not the real football team mind you, the junior varsity team.”
“That right?” the man asked, climbing off of me. “You not even good enough to blow the real team? Are you b-string?”
“Fucking z-string,” my husband said.
They laughed.
My husband went on. “Yeah, and I heard first hand accounts. She swallowed for them all. Didn’t you boo boo?”
Boo boo was his pet name for me.
“Did you like it?” the man asked.
“Yeah, did you like it, honey?”
“Answer us!”
“Answer him, goddamn it!” My husband’s voice boomed in the room. “I want to hear you tell him the truth!”
“You like swallowing for all them boys back in school?”
Did I? Was that even my life anymore? I couldn’t remember. The thought of it sure sounded good, so I must have. “Yes.” My voice was thick and rattled with tears and mucous.
“I knew it!” my husband said, resuming his stroking.
The man stood above me and zipped his fly. He bent down, picked up the knife and cleanly sliced off a nipple.
I was so numb to the pain, I felt nothing but screamed anyway.
“I love to hear you scream!” my husband said.
“Watch this.” A creepy smile crawled across the man’s face as he held my severed nipple inches from my mouth.
I slammed my lips shut and looked away.
Instantly, the knife blade was at my throat digging into my skin.
“Eat this, or I cut you from ear to ear.”
He was going to cut me ear to ear anyway, so fuck him.
I shook my head.
My husband stopped masturbating and froze—eyes wide and unblinking, mouth hanging open in mute astonishment.
The other man frowned and looked at him. “What do we do now?”
They were going to kill me anyway, I knew this and accepted it and, with my body sore and abused, I was beginning to welcome it. No matter what, I was a dead woman, so why fight it? The fight is what they liked. They wanted me to prolong it, but I took that away from them. I held the power.
I swallowed, licked my lips and said thickly, “when you’re done with me, why don’t you fuck him like the little bitch he is,” I said, nodding at my husband. “The reason I was never his willing whore is because he never had what it takes.” I forced a laugh. “You’re not a real man; you’re a joke.”
My husband jumped up, his chair flying across the room and into the wall. “You shut the fuck up!”
“Why?” I said. “What are you going to do?” I turned my head and looked at the leaky mildew-encrusted pipes over my head. “Kill me?”
The two men looked at each other, but said nothing. My husband looked absurd—his rigid cock swiveling when he moved, pants balled up around his ankles.
Having established a pecking order, or so I thought, I realized that yes, my husband, as much as I loved him, was not a man I could whore myself for. Not until tonight at least. They were going to kill me and I could not stop it. I didn’t want to. I was too tired. I had no more fight left in me.
I turned to him. “Go ‘head and sit down. Enjoy me one last time. I’m going to make it easy for you. Tonight, I am you whore. Now, cum for me one last time, while this all ends.”
My husband’s face lit up as he fell to his knees, his cock inches from my face. “I can’t listen to her anymore,” he said, pumping his dick. “Finish her.”
I tried to maintain eye contact with him, but he looked away. I was going to die; he had killed me, but I had won.
I heard the sound of metal scraping on metal, but did not look to see what was coming my way. Then I felt a searing pain below my ribcage. I forced myself to look and saw the man above me, slicing me from sternum to pubis.
“You got a lot of fat to saw through,” he said.
My abdomen split and my body pulled apart as I suddenly realized my stupidity. I wanted to live—Oh! How I wanted to live!—I had egged them on, forced them hasten my demise for a pointless moral victory. I cursed my ignorance, thrashed at my restraints, screamed at the top of my lungs, heard my husband’s laughter and accepted the cruel justice that this is how a pathetic fat whore like me should die. I would die was I had lived; a slab of meat for use and entertainment.
The man reached inside of me and squished my organs, blood spattering across my tits. He cast the knife aside, leaned down, bit into my kidney and pulled out loops of my intestines. I had long since stopped screaming, as I was too weak to do so.
He flung loops of my innards at my husband who wrapped them around his cock and masturbated with them. The man laughed uncontrollably as he mutilated my dying body. I looked at my husband, wanting desperately for him to fuck me one last time, but I knew that wasn’t going to happen. I turned my head, slowly opened my mouth as my tongue slid out, inches from his blood and intestine-covered cock. My eyelids fluttered, my skin as pale as ash as the blood drained from me. In a barely audible whisper, I asked him to cum in my mouth one more time. I wanted to taste him as I expired and I did and it was wonderful.
He flung my guts aside, forced himself into my mouth and exploded into me as he spewed out a litany derogatory fat names for me. He smoked a lot and did not eat right, so his cum was always strong, sour, bitter and often made me gag, but tonight it was a beautiful experience.
I was too weak to actually swallow it down, and I was dead before I had the chance.
Death is interesting. You see nothing but know all. I knew they continued to mutilate and desecrate my corpse for hours after I died, before leaving me in a ditch out in the woods. I knew coyotes and bears scavenged what was left of my body, striping the rotten flesh from my browning bones. I had always thought that at work, they’d miss having a fat girl to pick on, but they didn’t. I knew I was replaced almost immediately and I knew that no one ever mentioned me. I knew I was gone, but I also knew I had never existed. The men I had fucked around with in college were now married to pretty skinny wives, and they never thought of me. And my husband? I knew he got away with it. After a hiker found my bones, my husband was questioned but eventually exonerated. And now? Right now? I know he’s spending the money from my life insurance buying gifts for his young attractive, popular, new wife.
I am no more as if I never was.
It’s what I deserved.
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