An hour after yet another round of one-sided sex I was no less sure there was no love left, just frustration and pain.
Penelope’s increasing disabilities as a 350 sick fat woman had reduced what had been our active sex life to her wanting more than she could handle. Too many times she had gotten her thrill then called off anything to do with my pleasure as being too much for her to handle, or too painful. Our marriage had become just work, my taking care of her for little in return.
The large sagged-apart breasts I had in the past enjoyed tit-fucking were now just un-arousing bags of fat and glands. Even laying down her belly had grown to the point where the extra lower flap hung down over her groin, hiding her pubic mound lightly blond-furred triangle and her no longer of interest fat puffy labia.
I fetched my best knife from the display in my office and went to the bedroom where Penelope was asleep. I moved quietly to my wife at the left side of the bed and gently pulled down the single sheet she was sleeping under. Despite all the past revenge fantasies I wasted no time on taking sexual or sadistic enjoyment of Penelope’s pale fat bulk of a body, leaning over her with my right hand empty and the lethal knife held in a dagger grip in my left hand. I was more than done with her, I just wanted it over with.
I slapped my right hand down over Penelope’s mouth, thumb under her chin to shove and tilt her head back across the neck roll she used instead of a pillow. The force exposed her thick throat as she startled and began to wake. She barely had time for the first sound of some hand-muffled exclamation before I used my full strength to drive the knife down into the center of her throat. The katana point of the knife easily cut into her soft neck and drove through her windpipe with a small crunching noise followed by the thud of the heel of my hand against her neck.
Penelope heaved on the bed when the killing thrust sunk home, her legs and arms thrashing but her head pinned down by the hand on her mouth and the knife in her neck.. I twisted and pushed down while pulling the blade towards me, tearing a gaping wound in her neck. What I felt in my hilt gripping hand fed my imagination and I could “See” the beveled sharp steel tearing in through the cartilage and muscles of her throat before cutting through her neck muscles and just missing her spine. Her throat was thick enough the 6 inch blade did not quite go all the way through.
Penelope’s scream was muffled by my palm, not even as loud as the audible hiss of air from the growing wound. In my mind’s eye the rocking blade cut up and to my right, slicing out through her throat and cutting through smaller blood vessels until in a moment the noise became a wet bubbling gurgle.
I knew the blade had severed her left carotid artery, the spurting hot blood spattering me and filling her windpipe. Penelope tried to inhale and instead started to drown on the flooding gush of her own blood, her eyes wide over my mouth covering hand. I could see the shock and fear in her look at me as she understood I was hurting her. There was something very satisfying about her expression and what it showed me. Despite not seeking revenge, just an ending, I still found a cruel satisfaction in my wife’s knowledge that the man she had trusted and depended on was now destroying her.
The wet coughing gurgles got louder for a moment as I yanked the knife up and the arterial blood not flooding her lungs spurted higher in a pulsing jet. Penelope struggled frantically on the bed, her right hand clawing at my right wrist to try and pull my hand off her mouth while her left hand pawed at the gaping wound in her throat.
I knew Penelope was dying yet lifted my left hand high and drove the knife down into her again, the cutting bevel of the blade punching into the upper slope of her fat, heaving belly close below her left ribs. I pushed down towards her waist with the handle, the tilting blade likely cutting up through her diaphragm and into her lung. Penelope convulsed on the bed hard enough her mouth came out from under my hand, the thick bright blood she coughed up spattering her face, my hand, and the already bloody sheet behind her head.
I grabbed my left hand with my right, yanking the steel sideways towards Penelope’s sternum, The sharp blade rising from the lengthening, gaping wound when the edge ground against bone. The slash gaped, not so bloody that the red hid the inch-thick layer of yellow fat under the pale skin. I pulled the knife out and raised the bloody blade high over Penelope’s chest before driving it down with all my strength. The steel cut into the upper slope of her flopping, flaccid left breast just above her nipple, the force of the blow enough to crunch through her ribs as my overlapping hands smacked down on her punctured tit. The front end of the hilt was embedded in the welling up soft skin, the soft fat of her breast pushed aside by the force of the impact. The jetting spurts from Penelope’s mutilated, gaping throat faltered and subsided, showing the thrust had torn into her racing heart.
My quickly dying wife heaved on the bed again, the reaction much less than for the second stab as her body ran out of strength. I felt I had granted Penelope a quicker death than she deserved, her struggles subsiding quickly. Her pale skin whitened further wherever it was not spattered with bright red blood. The jetting spurts of blood from the ragged hole in her neck quickly subsided to a pulsing flow. In what was likely less than thirty seconds she was barely twitching. I let go of the knife when her eyes stopped moving, her stare at the ceiling fixed and her pupils dilating fully. I backed up a couple of slow steps then turned away from what was now just a pathetic heap of dead fat flesh, the hilt of the knife still jutting from her bloody slack breast.
