A Life Unknown

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He'd often told her about the times one of the women in his group would be in the car with him giving him a blow job; maybe a car would cross the centerline and the woman would chomp down, severing his dick and he'd bleed to death.

Perhaps it would happen on his yearly fishing trip, when she was left alone for a week. He could be walking down to the water and a crazed bear would attack, ripping him open, pulling his entrails out and eating them while he writhed on the ground in agonizing pain wishing for a quick death.

Her favorite death fantasy was seeing him spread eagle naked on the ground, tied at the wrists and ankles with wet leather in the hot sun, his body glistening with baby oil. After a couple hours, his skin crispy red, she'd cover him in raw hamburger and leave him for the coyotes.

That particular fantasy always made her hot, so she was careful to only entertain it when she was alone and could bring herself to release. Kneeling on the ground in front of her flowers in the back garden, she saw herself tying his wrists and felt a dampness form between her legs. She saw herself tying his ankles and felt her nipples hardening. Thinking about pouring baby oil on his naked body, she began to rub her breasts, flicking her fingers against her protruding nipples, enjoying the feel of her body coming alive. Then she reached up under her peasant skirt, rubbing herself over her panties.

Oh to be rid of him! The very thought made her blood race. She could feel the orgasm mounting, crying for release. She put her hand inside her panties, touching her wet velvety warmth, using her fingers to fuck her hole while her thumb rubbed her nub, rocking her hips for more friction. Not afraid that anyone would hear, she let her moans escape, louder as the pressure mounted, ending in a primal scream as release was found.

She removed her hand and bent forward as tears wracked her body. It was always the same. Pure bliss followed by complete self loathing and disgust.

Divorce was never an option. She had signed a pre-nup and would get nothing; have nothing; be nothing. There was nowhere to go. Her parents had sold their house and moved three months after she got married. She had no idea where they were. Death was the only escape.

The first few years she had considered different ways she might die. There were no pills to take; the very idea of causing physical pain made her ill; and Stephen kept the car keys for both cars with him at all times. Suicide was about as feasible as divorce.

On this, her thirty-sixth birthday, there was no hope.

Stephen had just celebrated his fifty-eighth birthday last month with his associates, and a physical exam two weeks ago proclaimed him in excellent health.

She sat up, using the hem of her skirt to dry her eyes, then screamed when she saw a man standing just feet from her.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to startle you. Are you okay?"

"How long have you been there?" she asked, more worried that he had seen her pleasuring herself than she was that Stephen might find out she was talking to someone without his permission.

"I just arrived. I called out beside the house, but I guess you didn't hear me. My car broke down and I don't have my phone with me. I was wondering if I might use yours."

She shook her head.

"You have to leave. I can't be talking to you. Please."

"I'll only be a minute. I just need to call road service."

"I don't have a phone. You can't be here. Please? Go."

"I'm not going to harm you," he said, his voice soft.

Until that moment, it hadn't occurred to her that he might. Her concern was more that Stephen would somehow find out he was here and she'd suffer some form of humiliation and pain. She stood up and started walking to the house.

"Can you at least tell me where the nearest house is? One that might have a phone I could use?"

Eighteen years spent here and she had never met her neighbors. She could only assume one or both had a phone.

"About a mile that way," she said, pointing toward the east.

"Thank you," he said.

She entered the house through the back kitchen door, locking it behind her. Then she ran to the front of the house, locking the front door. All the other doors were always locked.

She stood by the front door, watching him through the tall pane of glass as he made his way along the drive way to the road and out of sight. Stephen would be home soon, so she waited five minutes then unlocked the door so he wouldn't be suspicious.

In the kitchen, she checked on the roast she had put on earlier. Then she began to clean vegetables to put in with it. They wouldn't need to be put in for another forty-five minutes, but she needed something to do to keep herself occupied.

If Stephen saw the man, he'd probably assume that he had come to the house. He'd know she had talked to him. There was no getting around it. She was going to be punished.

After washing the vegetables, she took out her cutting board and a large knife. She lined the carrots up, three at a time. Stephen liked them all to be the same size so she made the first cut and took one of the slices to use as a measure for the rest, lining the tip even with those uncut. She had just made the last cut when she heard him call her from the front door.

'He knows,' she thought.

She stepped out of the kitchen into the entry hall. Stephen was standing just inside the door. The man was with him.

"Celia, this is Jon Weber. His car is broke down just past our driveway. Get him something to drink. I'll be right down."

She went to the kitchen again, getting a can of soda out of the refrigerator. Wondering what punishment Stephen would devise, she closed the door and nearly bumped into the stranger.

"What's wrong? Why do you seem so scared?" he whispered.

She gave him the soda then went over to the counter. Holding back the tears, she resumed cutting the vegetables. The man came to stand near her. He took the knife from her.

"You're going to wind up cutting yourself," he said.

"What's going on here?!" Stephen demanded as he walked in the room.

"Nothing," the man said. "I was just talking."

Stephen crossed the room, taking hold of her arm.

"You want to fuck him, don't you?" he whispered between clenched teeth. "Then do it!" he yelled, pushing her into the man. "Fuck him!"

The man put his hands on her shoulders and set her away from him.

"Whoa!" he said. "I think there's a major misunderstanding going on here."

"My ass!" Stephen yelled. "How long has this been going on?!"

Celia couldn't move. She saw him coming after her, but she couldn't lift her feet.

Stephen grabbed her arm, pulling her to him. In one fluid motion, he had his hands on the neckline of her shirt, then had ripped it open and pulled it off her. Before she could register what he had done, she felt her skirt being pulled down.

"No," she whimpered.

"What the fuck are you doing?" the man asked.

Stephen picked up the knife from the counter.

"You slut! I can smell the sex on you!"

"NO!!" she screamed as he came at her with the knife.

"I warned you, you bitch!"

The man lunged at Stephen, catching him off guard. Celia felt herself fall to the floor as soon as she was free of Stephens' grasp.

She saw Stephen jabbing the knife toward the man. They circled, Stephen jabbing, the man avoiding every thrust. At the stove, she saw the man take hold of the pan the roast was cooking in. She saw him lift it off the burner. As if in slow motion, she saw the boiling water fly the few inches through the air, landing on Stephen's face.

Everything slowed to such a speed that she could see every droplet of water splash. Stephen screamed, but she couldn't hear it, could only see his mouth open. He staggered back a step, tripped on his own feet, tried to straighten himself. She watched his body turn, saw the absolute agony in his eyes. He started to fall...coming toward her... the knife pointed downward...

Death would be her escape after all; while somewhere in the great beyond...

The cake was beautiful. Fifteen year old Jon-Jon was managing to carry it, all the candles blazing, without setting off the smoke alarm. As he set it on the table in front of her, she admired the diamond tennis bracelet Jon had given her earlier while the group around the table sang "Happy Birthday". She made her usual wish that the bouts of unwarranted sadness would cease, and blew the candles out in one swoop.

Twelve year old Marissa took the cake away, setting it in front of her grandmother to cut and dish out. Celia watched the scene in front of her, grateful once again for what she had.

Eighteen years of marriage to the most wonderful man alive. Two beautiful children, parents who had loved and supported her , a successful business, a great house, and the best friends a woman could ever want. She was lucky and she knew it.

On this, her thirty-sixth birthday, life was good. There was no reason to believe otherwise.

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oldestgenxeroldestgenxerover 17 years ago
I get it.

I get it dear, I really do. Especially after reading 324A. Do we all have another life, being lived in our heads? And which one is real? My god, you inspire me. I mean that.

AnonymousAnonymousover 18 years ago
Different from your other stories

I've liked all of your stories - this one was a little different, sadder - especially when she dies from the knife at the end but the other Celia has had a really good, happy and loved life.

Mirriam

AnonymousAnonymousover 18 years ago
Really well done!

This was an excellent story, if a little less erotic than I'd been hoping. Really very well-written and evocative.

msboy8msboy8over 18 years ago
Great Story, but...

... I either didn't get it, or I didn'tlike the ending if I did get it. You raised a lot of emotions, your story will stay with me awhile. Keep writing, being able to arose emotions means that you're doing something right!

DG HearDG Hearover 18 years ago
Don't get it!

The story was interesting but I really don't get it. Which was her real life? Either, neither, or both? Both lives were hers from 17 to 36. Don't get it. Was an interesting read though.

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