THE GOOD HUBBY

Kimmie Holland & Meeah Mackenzie

***One***

Even though he knew it probably meant the end, he nearly sobbed in relief when he heard the sound of Wendy’s heels on the stairs leading up to the attic bedroom. He’d felt so horribly alone lying there on the bed, naked, the dull pain growing in his belly. Dying. Dying—it seemed so hard to believe. He’d managed to turn over onto his right side, his knees partially drawn up, and he was panting lightly. He saw his wife standing at the head of the stairs now, one hand resting on the newel post, the love of his life, resplendent and beautiful, prismatic through his tear-filled eyes, like an angel.

“You aren’t dead yet?” Wendy said when she saw he was still gasping for air.

The note of disappointment in her voice was obvious. So was the frown on her pretty face. It lanced through him with a pain even more lethal than that of the poison he’d swallowed. She couldn’t wait to be rid of him. Well she wouldn’t have long to wait now.

“Sophie said that dose should have finished you off in a half hour. I hope you didn’t cheat. You did drink all the cocoa I fixed you, didn’t you?”

She eyed the empty mug on the nightstand suspiciously.

       

Speech no longer seemed possible. It was all he could do to draw enough breath to keep from suffocating. Everything inside his chest felt all cottony and his throat was swollen and tight. He was, however, still able to weakly nod his head.

“Hmmph,” his wife said, her arms crossed under her breasts, still not sure whether to believe him or not.

Her friend, Sophie, had provided her with the powerful drug intended to kill her husband, as well as the most effective dosage. For years Sophie had had a crush on her, but Wendy didn’t swing that way, not for the most part, anyway. Still, Sophie was just as glad to see Michael out of the way. She didn’t think Michael was nearly the man that Wendy deserved—in fact, neither one of them hardly considered him a man at all. When Wendy, in disgust one day at lunch, told her about the snuff fantasies that Michael had confided to her, Sophie saw it as the perfect opportunity for Wendy to get rid of that spineless wimp and increase both their bank accounts at the same time. She eagerly convinced Wendy to encourage Michael’s erotic death fantasies, getting him to describe them in detail, and, on rare occasions, to even help him to act them out.

Wendy didn’t share her husband’s fantasies to say the least. He’d never been her sexual type, anyway; he was a man she considered strictly for marriage and security, not for fucking, and the revelation of Michael’s kinky desire for surrender resulted in her losing what little respect she’d ever had for her husband in the first place. Coming after the discovery that her husband was a closet crossdresser just the year before, this latest admission was the last straw. Wendy was thinking divorce. Sophie, however, urged her to stick with it a while longer.

“Find out what really turns him on,” Sophie advised. “You can surely use it against him when the time comes.”

The time had at last come.

And not a moment too soon for Wendy.

Michael, wincing as another wave of pain passed through him, wondered how it had come to this. How had he allowed Wendy to convince him to be snuffed for real? He knew, of course. He was going to lose her, she’d told him as much, and he knew it was something he wouldn’t be strong enough to bear. So when she offered to make his ultimate fantasy come true, he’d agreed. Part of him still hoped it was just a fantasy, that he’d be able to win her over in the end. She wouldn’t really snuff him, would she? If she did, well, he figured he just might as well die. He’d leave it up to her; it seemed only natural, after all. She had the power of life and death over him anyway.

These were the ways he tricked himself, how he’d agreed to go through with his own murder and hadn’t backed down even to the point of drinking the cocoa he knew was poisoned. He’d already written his will leaving everything to Wendy, signed over all his assets, which, after his parent’s estate had passed to him, were considerable, and, along with a letter stating his intention to ‘disappear’ and start a new life, delivered it, sealed, to their lawyer, with instructions to open it…today…the day Wendy had decided it would be best for him to die.

He admitted that he was a closet fag, a transvestite sissy, a pervert, and cocksucker and included in the folio with these documents was the collection of snapshots of Michael in drag, of him giving head, the snapshots that Wendy herself took of him humiliating himself, kneeling before men she had him pick up in bars or meet over the internet. By then he’d already apologized to his wife and his stepsons. Wendy thought it was important for him to do own up to his guilt, that it set a good example for the boys to hear it from his own mouth. So abjectly he stood in the living room and in front of them all and admitted that he was a failure as a husband and father.

Yes, it had all seemed like some kind of kinky fantasy out of his imagination, but it was real, wasn’t it? She was going to leave him, and, what’s more, she was going to murder him. Not even all the sugar and cream she’d put into the cocoa was able to disguise the bitter taste of the strong and deadly poison. He was still trying to talk, but the sound he made was barely a whimper.

“It’s okay Michael, don’t try to talk.”

Wendy put one knee up on the bed, curled her leg under her, and sat beside him. She was wearing a thin, wrap-around skirt that rode high up on her smooth, bare thigh. Her thin sleeveless summer blouse exposed her slender arms and even a bit of her girlish breasts when she leaned over. Wendy caught her husband’s eyes instinctively straining to see up her skirt and gave a small satisfied smile. She shifted a bit and allowed him a glimpse of her new pink lace panties. Was he just imagining that that he caught the musky familiar scent of her excited pussy? That beautiful pussy he would never ever taste again?

“You naughty boy,” she mock-scolded, “even at a time like this.”

She laid a hand on his feverish forehead. Her small palm felt so soft and cool. Until she touched him, he hadn’t realized he was burning up so badly.

“Poor baby,” she murmured and made a faux pity-face, her bottom lip in an adorable pout.  “Well, you can just relax now. There’s nothing else you need to do, sweetie. I want to tell you how much I appreciate what you’re doing for me and the boys.”

Michael didn’t know how to answer even if he could speak. It wasn’t the pain exactly. It was more the terror as he lay there slowly and helplessly strangling while the woman he loved so desperately and helplessly looked blithely on and talked about the future her and her sons would soon enjoy.  He lifted his head a scant centimeter from the bed and tried to speak again. Wendy put her finger to her lips. “Ssssssh.”

He sank back, defeated. His eyes drifted lazily down his wife’s shapely leg and followed the soft curve of her calf all the way down to the delicate ankle, which was decorated with the gold anklet he’d bought her last summer. Michael noticed she was wearing the sexy thong sandals he liked so much on her. And that her toenails were freshly pedicured. Did she have a date tonight? The thought suddenly hit him from out of nowhere and he felt a moment of panic. Why should it have surprised him? He suspected, after all, that she was probably seeing someone else. Nonetheless his heart lurched hazardously…from the drug, or sadness? His dry lips parted and a small strangled gargle came out. He moaned and squirmed a little in the sweat-dampened sheets.

Beneath those sheets he felt and heard the crackle of plastic—in case he had an accident and lost control of his bladder or bowels as he died. Somehow the realization that Wendy, as practical as ever, had thought to take such sensible precautions made it all that much more chillingly real.

“That’s it, honey,” his wife said, approvingly, “just let it happen.”

She calmly squirted some hand lotion into her palms and rubbed her hands together as she watched with interest the struggle between fear and acceptance taking place on her husband’s face. Then, to help him pass more quickly from one to the other, she reached into the panties he was wearing and took hold of his penis, which was inexplicably already half-hard—although Sophie had explained that an erection was a common enough side-effect, welcome or not, with this particular lethal poison. She began stroking his small cock lightly, teasingly letting her fingertips slide up and down the shaft. Without a moment’s hesitation, Michael responded, in spite of himself, just like he always did to his beautiful wife. His legs parted slightly and his body stiffened, the pre-orgasmic arch forming in his lower back. He’d always been a quick spurter, but this time Wendy was grateful. She had no desire to draw this out any longer than it was strictly necessary. Michael’s eyes glazed and his hands, lying palm-up in surrender on either side of his head, curled slightly in two ineffectual fists

“Feel good?” Wendy cooed.

Her husband made an inarticulate gakking noise and nodded. Grateful. Wendy hadn’t touched him in weeks.

She smiled down at him again, this time a little sadly he thought, like he was a sick puppy. “You look so sweet like this.”

Just then one of Wendy’s sons called up from downstairs. “Mom?”

“Give me a minute, Alex,” Wendy snapped, one of the few times Michael had ever heard her speak crossly to her boys. “I’m with Michael. He’s dying.”

Hearing Wendy say it like that so matter-of-fact and so plainly, as if this were all perfectly natural, seemed almost surreal. At the foot of the stairs, he heard Alex snicker. Michael knew that he and his brother would be glad to have him out of the way. They never saw him as anything more than a usurper in their mother’s bed. It was bad enough before they knew he was a sissy crossdresser, but from the first time Wendy had him dress up and introduced his femme persona to the boys, they’d lost what little respect they’d ever had for him. At home, Wendy often had Michael dress enfemme and he bore the boys insults and snickering often with tears in his eyes. With their mother’s encouragement, they treated him no better than a maid. Now they’d both be able to attend the college of their choice free and clear with the money he was leaving them. Maybe they’d feel just a little less disdain for him?

“Don’t go anywhere just yet, Alex” Wendy added. “I’m going to need you and your brother to help carry his body down.”

“Okay, but we want to catch a movie in town at 3.”

Wendy looked back at her husband. “Oh, it won’t be that long.”

Michael heard his stepson grunt and walk off. If there were any last doubts in his mind that his wife was going to go through with his murder, it was wiped away after this exchange with her son. With the last mindless panic of the dying, he realized he had to get up, to escape before it was too late. It was now or never. If he could just get to a phone, call 911, there might still be time to save himself, to pump his stomach, administer an antidote…but, in spite of his panic, his body wasn’t following even his most urgent commands.

“I knew you wouldn’t want Tim here to see you like this,” Wendy explained, unaware of the crisis through which her hubby was passing. As she mentioned her ex-husband, her hand had picked up the pace, stroking his cock in the exact rhythm she knew always brought him off quickly. “So I told Alex to call him over later to help bury you. Wasn’t that thoughtful of me? I’ve decided on lilac to plant over your grave. The flowers should come in nicely by next spring. In two or three years, no one will ever be able to guess there’s a grave there. When they bloom, I’ll cut some and bring them inside. I’ll remember you that way. Isn’t that nice?”

Michael managed, at last, through his constricted windpipe, to force out a few hoarse words.

“Wendy, please…please …don’t…do…this…lets try…again…please…I love…”

“Don’t Michael,” Wendy said in the cold stern voice he’d lately come to know so well these last weeks. “It’s too late. We’ve been through this before. It’s old. You’ve made your choices and I’ve decided to move on with my life. The boys want you dead and I want you dead. I know its beyond you to take it as a man, but can’t you at least take it with just a little dignity? I thought you accepted that you had to die? Don’t disappointment me again. Can’t you think of anyone but yourself? Don’t you care about me or the boys? I have a date tonight to celebrate and I want you dead and buried. I have to get on with my life, Michael.. Why do you always have to be so difficult?”

Oh god no. Michael felt a chill pass through him—it might have been the Angel of Death itself passing over his body. He knew at that moment it was really and truly over. Wendy had found someone already. Michael had fantasized about such a thing, of her fucking another man, had suspected it, was all but assured of it, but now it was out in the open, a reality, from her own lips. He should have known. He was going to die and his beautiful wife wouldn’t waste a moment starting a new life with a new and more virile lover. She’d probably fuck her new lover on the bed Michael died in that very night!

That was her plan, and now he was ruining it by begging for another chance.

Wendy’s beautiful face crumpled. Tears ran down her cheeks. “Don’t you appreciate all the trouble I’ve gone through? Don’t you care how hard this is for me? Damn you!”

She let go of his cock, jumped off the bed, and ran into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Michael heard her sobbing.

Oh god please, he silently, please come back. I’m sorry. I’ll die, please, I promise just come back…

If only he could speak, he would have cried the words out loud. But no voice would issue from his constricted throat. An awful pressure was building steadily inside his and his heart was beating erratically. It didn’t seem possible that his body could hold out much longer. His vision faltered and only with the greatest of effort was it possible to bring it back. But very soon it would be an effort he knew he’d have no strength to make. He would then lie motionless under the black wave of death and let it bear him away.

Michael was now terrified of one thing: that he’d die while Wendy was pouting in the bathroom. He didn’t want to die alone. He’d been so relieved when she’d come up to check on him and now he’d ruined everything with his selfishness. Just give him one more chance and he would die, quietly and obediently, just as he’d promised, but please just don’t let him die alone, without seeing the only woman he ever truly loved one last time. Michael heard Wendy running the water and then the sound of her blowing her nose. She wasn’t crying any more; in fact, she was talking quite cheerfully on the cordless phone. Whoever she was talking to seemed to have calmed her down. She was happily agreeing with everything they said.

After a while, the door opened and she came out of the bathroom. Michael followed her with his feverish eyes and shuddered with relief when he saw she was coming towards the bed. Even without speech, he tried to communicate his love and gratitude. He wanted to apologize for his earlier cowardly and selfish behavior but his lips were already numb, as were his fingers and toes. He wanted to tell his beautiful wife that he accepted it all now. That he would die as she wanted him to. That she was right and it was the best thing for everyone. Just don’t leave me again. Please. He wished he could tell her these things but the time for talking was over forever. There was drool on his chin. Perhaps seeing her hubby’s surrender in his eyes, Wendy smiled down at him approvingly.

Michael wished more than anything that she’d take his penis in her hand again while there was still time. His wife seemed to read his thoughts. She climbed onto the bed beside him for what they both knew would be the last time.

Wendy took hold of his shaft between her long cool fingers. She gave him a mischievous glance. “How about one last blow-job?”

His leaking cock answered for him.

Wendy grinned. “Okay baby. Just relax and enjoy. But don’t take too long to cum, okay? You don’t have that long. You don’t have to hold back anymore.”

She reached back and slipped off her thong sandals and swung her pretty legs up on the bed. Her sexy feet were only inches from his face.

“Would you like to suck my toes one more time?” she asked, looking up from between her husband’s legs where she’d begun to sensuously lick the swollen tip of his cock.

With tears leaking from the corners of his eyes, Michael managed to nod his head, yes.

“You’re so cute,” she said. She moved one of her feet close enough to her hubby’s face so he could lick her pretty pale toes. Michael took her plump big toe into his mouth to suck while she worked on his cock.

It didn’t take long before he felt what he knew would be his last cum building up behind inside his balls. Wendy sensed it, too, of course. She bobbed her head quicker, not caring to prolong this any longer than necessary. Michael felt his heart stop—and stutter weakly to a start. Still, he was trying to hold back, wishing the moment could go on forever, that he could hold on to Wendy just a little longer. He knew that he would die soon. His attempts at self-control were feeble…and futile. He sucked on Wendy’s sweet toes and found himself thinking of her lover fucking his wife’s pretty body while he lay cold and alone under the earth in the backyard.

In the past, he had fantasized about this, had asked for this, and now it had come to pass. Wendy had seen in his kinky fantasies an advantage for her and her boys and, conspiring with her friend Sophie, she’d used them against him. He never really stood a chance. Michael felt his wife bring her other foot over his chest and lightly graze her polished toenails across his nipples. At the same time, she gently squeezed his balls and tightened her lips around the head of his cock, urging him to cum. He whimpered and opened his mouth wider and Wendy slipped all five of her soft toes between his lips.

And then it happened: he burst inside Wendy’s mouth, as she sucked and gulped the last seed he would ever produce. She sucked him until he was drained dry and then she sat up and kissed him on the mouth. He could taste his dying cum on her lips.

She gazed down at her husband with what, for the first time, looked like genuine sympathy. She could tell that he was ready to die, but his body just wouldn’t let go.

“It’s time sweetie,” she said softly. “I didn’t want to have to do it this way, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to help you along. I called Sophie earlier. She said if you didn’t go within the hour to finish you off this way. It won’t be hard, I promise.”

***Two***

After his weak little orgasm, Michael went to his death as gentle as a lamb. I got out the nylon restraints that he liked me to use on him and I fastened his wrists to his thighs, but it really didn’t turn out to be necessary. The silly rabbit lay there passively, looking up at me with big adoring eyes. I slipped the thick plastic bag over his head and fastened it tightly around his neck with a pair of strong elastic bands. I checked to make sure that no air could sneak in, just as Sophie had instructed me. It was a perfect seal. Michael breathed normally for a while and then I could see him laboring a bit, the plastic molding itself around his sweaty face as the oxygen inside the bag rather quickly ran out.

Still, he didn’t put up any struggle; even if he’d wanted to fight it, he was too weak by then, and I don’t think he wanted to fight it any longer. I doubt if he suffered too much. At one point, he opened his mouth, gasping, and the plastic got sucked inside. His body stiffened and his toes pointed and then he shuddered all over like he was freezing, even though he was covered with sweat. I saw his penis twitch and I thought for a moment he was about to get hard again, but then I saw the little arc of golden liquid, and knew that he’d merely lost control of his bladder. I have to admit it was so sexy watching him die that I reached under my mini skirt and touched the front of my damp panties. I came almost immediately, sliding down the wall I was leaning against. It was one of the best orgasms of my life. Certainly the best Michael ever gave me.

After ten minutes or so, I recovered enough of my senses to call Tim, my ex, my other ex, I guess I should say.

“It’s done?” he asked. “No problems?”

“Done. No problems.”

“Great. I’ll be right over.”

I called downstairs to my oldest boy and told him to find his brother and to come upstairs to the bedroom. On the bed, Michael was completely still and silent, but I wanted to be positive he was dead. I asked my older boy Alex to take the bag off his head to check.

I was too squeamish to look. I hid my eyes with my hand. I peeked out between a crack in my fingers. “Is he dead?”

“He’s dead,” Alex said.

He had taken the lighter I used to start an incense and was holding it to Michael’s left nipple. Jeff grabbed the lighter out of his brother’s hand and with a sly grin said, “Hey watch this!” He applied the flame to the tip of Michael’s cock. Naturally, they found such clowning around to be hilarious. Boys will be boys, I guess!

They’d never seen a dead body before and I let them examine it all they wanted. Michael didn’t object (hee-hee). They were upset at all; they both found death pretty cool. The boys made fun of his nakedness, of his smooth girly body, of his tiny cock, and painted toenails. It was my younger boy, Jeff, who noticed the bed was wet. 

“He peed himself, Mom.”

“That’s what happens sometimes when you die sweetie. Just be glad he didn’t poop himself, that happens sometimes, too.”

“Yuck, that’s just gross.”

I agreed, which is why I’d had Michael clean himself out with a series of increasingly larger enemas over the last week. I’d also restricted him to a liquid diet. In addition to cleaning him out, the lack of solid food had greatly weakened him, making him less prone to struggle against his death, and more susceptible to the poisoning

The boys continued to horse around while they waited for their dad to arrive. By now, knowing he was definitely dead, I’d gotten over my squeamishness to have a look at the body. Michael’s mouth was open, his eyes staring, but he didn’t look too bad. Just a little scared, maybe. But, all in all, that was to be expected, I guess. It must have been pretty horrible for him to die like this, in the prime of his life, with so many years ahead of him, but, in the end, even he realized it was all for the best.

When Tim arrived he found us upstairs waiting. He gave me a long passionate kiss. It was like old times between us. The boys were happy to see us together again.  Money wasn’t going to be a problem. Life was good. Tim stood over the bed where the body of his ex-rival lay, now cold and impotent. He looked Michael over from head to painted toes and snickered.

“Well she sure did a number on you didn’t she, buckaroo?” Then he called over his shoulder to Alex and Jeff. “What do you say, boys. Should we get this fairy planted?”

They wrapped Michael up in the soiled sheets, plastic liner and all, and carried him downstairs and out to the backyard where his grave had already been dug. I watched from the upstairs window as they unceremoniously dumped his body into the hole. Then Tim unzipped his fly. The boys didn’t hesitate to follow their father’s lead. There they all stood at the edge of the grave and urinated on Michael’s corpse. Go figure. I guess it was a male-bonding thing. I was glad Jeff and Alex had their father back full-time. Boys their age need a strong male role model, not a worthless sissy like Michael.

Tim and the boys finished pissing and each took up a shovel. I watched them throw dirt on my late hubby for a while. Then I gave Sophie a call to tell her the good news.

***Three***

Well, all that happened three years ago this November. Since then, Tim and I remarried. The boys are off to college and we’re enjoying our second chance at love and life together. Sometimes I wonder if I should be more thankful to Michael than I am, but, to be honest, I very seldom think about him at all, even when I take cuttings into the house from the lilac garden planted over his unmarked grave. In fact, I didn’t realize how much I’d forgotten until I began writing this story. I’m afraid, he never was very important to me. And, besides, he got what he wanted, too. The way I see it, he was lucky to have the opportunity to sacrifice his life for me and the boys.

And he got a farewell blowjob to boot. What more could he have asked for?

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