Domestic Freedom

Prompt Day #199: Craft a suicide seduction scene in which one character talks another into taking his or her own life.

I really don’t like writing about suicide. It’s hard for me. So this story probably isn’t exactly what Mr. Arnzen had in mind with the prompt. Be that as it may, this is my take on the prompt. I must issue this WARNING: There is sexually explicit material in this story, if you don’t like that sort of thing, don’t read this one.  

Domestic Freedom


                They say things like “why don’t you just leave?” or “Call the police and press charges.” As if it was that easy. As if I hadn’t thought of that. You know what would happen if I left? He would find me and he would kill me. He’s told me that with his hands around my throat, and I’m on the edge of death simply for not getting dinner on the table by 6 pm precisely. So you think if I left and he came after me that he’d just slap me on the wrists and say “bad girl”? Please. I knew leaving was out of the question twelve hours after I said ‘I do’ when I was sitting in the ER with broken ribs because I didn’t make eye contact during a blow job. As for law enforcement, look up the stats. See how many times men have gone to prison only to get out and come after the woman who put them there. No thanks.

The other misconception I’d like to clear up before I confess is the idea that victims of domestic violence are weak and stay because they have no self-esteem. Fuck you if you think that. Why don’t you try living with someone who can kiss you gently on the neck then spin you around and punch you in the face because you aren’t wearing the expensive perfume they bought? I bet you wouldn’t last a second. No. We’re strong. We’re strong physically and emotionally. We’re POWs and we have to bide our time. We know we deserve better.

I knew there was only one way out of my situation. It was kill or be killed. I just didn’t want to let this asshole make me a killer. I couldn’t live with the guilt of having killed someone. I thought about hiring a hit man, but I’d seen too many shows where undercover cops pose as hitmen. You make the deal, they arrest you. I used to watch the clock every day when I knew he was driving home from work, hoping he’d be in an accident. I bought him beer, hoping for a drunk driving accident. I fed him fatty dinners hoping he’d have a heart attack. You know what the universal rule of assholes is? Assholes live forever. Only good men die young. I had reached the point where I decided the only way out for me was via hearse; and if that was going to be the way it ended, I wanted it to end on my terms.

Sometimes, when you least expect it, karma comes along and give you a helping hand. He likes rough sex, surprise, surprise and in the last few times before he died, he’d taken to choking me in the middle of it. Once though, he started early, during foreplay and I had the most intense orgasm. He stopped, dumbfounded. I’d never had anything like it. It was scary really, to feel on the verge of passing out while at the same time you feel like your head and genitals are going to explode. He asked me if I’d liked it. I said yes, he asked what it felt like, I told him. He asked me to try it on him. I did. That ended with a broken wrist and a black eye because “you’re a fucking weak worthless shit”. I couldn’t squeeze hard enough to cut off his windpipe and he couldn’t get off properly.

The following day, while he was at work, I did a search on this phenomenon. It’s apparently a thing called asphyxiophilia and what was even more interesting was another term associated with this called autoerotic asphyxiation. Apparently, people do this to themselves with bags, ropes, belts and all sorts of contraptions…and many of them accidentally kill themselves in this way. They pass out and suffocate. What a perfect and personally embarrassing way for an asshole to die, I thought. I went to the store and bought a belt and some beer. I had an idea.

That night, he came home to find me wearing my skimpiest nighty. I poured him a beer (careful not to spill it with my cast on) and another after that. I showed him the belt and told him I wanted to make up for my weakness.

“But I’m just a scrawny girl and I’m not strong like you.” I told him. He likes getting his ego stroked almost as much as his cock. “I did some research today,” I said pouring him his third beer “and I think I can show you how to have an amazing orgasm like you gave me.” I smiled wrapping the belt around his neck. I looped it through its buckle and pulled it just enough to make it into a kind of leash. I grabbed another can of beer out of the fridge as I led him up the steps to the bedroom.

He let me undress him and push him back onto the bed. I put the glass of beer up to his lips.

“Drink, Baby” I said. “The buzz from the beer will help” This was something I hadn’t read, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt if I slowed down his reaction time a bit. He finished his glass and a poured the can I’d carried up with us. “Now, you’re gonna have to take care of yourself from the waist up.” I kissed him and put the end of the belt in his hand. “You control how tight you pull, but it’s best when you can’t breathe at all right at the end, ok?” He nodded with his stupid sloppy grin.

I worked my way down keeping eye contact the whole time. I only need to be “told” something once. I watched him tighten the belt. Good. I kissed his inner thighs.

“Do you like that?” I asked in my sex kitten voice. He nodded “Pull the belt tighter now.” I said. He did.

I worked my tongue around his balls. I could hear the wheeze of breath coming faster.

“Tighter” I whispered. I wrapped my hand around the base of his very erect member and took the rest into my mouth. I did my very best and watched his face turn red as he pulled the belt.

“Now, as tight as you can” I said and went back to work with a frenzy. His hips started bucking but I didn’t stop. I felt his other hand come down on my head and grab a handful of hair. I tightened my lips around him and pressed my tongue up harder. He let go of me and I felt him spasm. I looked up. I’d never seen a face so purple. His tongue was peeking out between his lips. I stopped and checked his pulse. It was pounding and irregular. The hand he’d used to hold the belt had dropped to the bed. I watched his chest but could see no movement so I checked his pulse again. Nothing. He was dead…and as far as anyone who came upon this scene would see, he did it to himself.

I brushed my teeth and spit and then I brushed them again. The last taste of my husband washed down the drain. I opened some porno magazines I’d bought with the beer and laid them out on the bed. I put some lube on his hand and wiped my spit off his dick and rubbed some on it too which wasn’t easy now that it was flaccid and dead like the rest of him.

And then I took my friends’ and family’s advice. I called the cops.