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The End of Him
by Meeah Soo (nomad1313@aol.com)

***

A submissive sissy obliges his ex-wife and her new 
lover by hanging himself. (MMF, tv, fetish, v, scat, 
tor, sn)

***
     
Mark checked his face in the bathroom mirror one last 
time. His lips, enhanced by collagen injections, had 
been painted in their sexiest cupid's bow pout. His 
brows were plucked in delicate arches. His bleached 
hair was cut to shoulder-length.

After several years of electrolysis, hormones, and 
bleaching, his skin was smooth and hairless. He looked 
as pretty as he was ever going to look. He felt the 
usual nervousness that he always felt whenever he went 
out on a "date," even though he'd been living as a 
woman for the last year, even though this was no date.
   
Outside he heard his ex-wife Diane and her new husband 
Richard talking about a vacation they were taking in a 
couple of weeks. How could they talk so casually? He 
felt a pang of sadness when he heard they were going to 
Maui. Twelve years before, Mark and Diane had 
honeymooned there. But it was far too late to change 
anything now.

"Let's go Monica," Diane called out impatiently from 
the other room. "We haven't got forever. And you have a 
lot less time than that."

Richard laughed at the crude joke. Mark swallowed 
another tranquilizer with a paper cup of water. His 
hand, with its delicate, pink-nailed fingers, was 
trembling.

His ex-wife and her new husband were sitting in the 
only two chairs in the dingy motel room when Mark 
walked in, clickety-clacking on gold, sling-back 
sandals. It had taken him a long time to learn how to 
walk gracefully on such tall, thin high-heels. He heard 
Richard give a low, mocking whistle, but Mark had been 
used by enough men in enough cheesy motel rooms to 
recognize the hint of real desire there.

His ex-wife slapped playfully at her new husband's arm 
and look Mark up and down.

"Well Monica," she said archly, "don't you look the 
trashy cutie."

"Don't be mean," Richard said, still joking. "You've 
got to give her points for effort."

"Yeah," Diane said, "the worthless prick did try awful 
hard at being a sissy. It was about the only thing he 
tried hard at."

"Hey," Richard said quietly, "ease up or you'll scare 
him even more than he is. You don't want him to change 
his mind, do you?"

Mark guessed that he wasn't supposed to hear that last 
remark, or Richard figured it made no difference if he 
did. The fact was that it probably didn't make any 
difference. Mark was pretty woozy by now from all the 
pills. He didn't have much will to resist whatever they 
might have suggested. Still, Diane seemed to consider 
Richard's words and her tone softened.

"It's okay Monica honey," she cooed. "Don't be scared. 
It's all going to be okay. Richard's right. You do look 
absolutely lovely."

Mark knew his ex-wife well enough to understand that 
she hadn't really changed her opinion. She hated him 
and she'd hate him forever. But that didn't really 
matter either. Not anymore. Nothing mattered, but the 
immediate present. It was all Mark had left. He just 
wanted things to go easier over the next, hopefully 
short, moments of his pitiful life. He was glad enough 
just to hear a kind voice, even if it was a fake 
kindness, even if his ex-wife's gentleness, like 
Richard's, was all just an act.

Oh god, Mark thought, putting out a hand to keep his 
balance. He suddenly felt unstable on the heels and sat 
on the edge of the thin, dirty-looking bed. How can I 
go through with this?

"Have you written your note, sweetie?" Diane asked in 
sugared tones. "That's important. You didn't forget, 
did you?"

Mark shook his head. "I remembered."

He felt like he was going to vomit, suddenly terrified. 
He tried to keep his eyes on the floor. He didn't want 
to look at what he knew he'd see hanging from the 
plaster-covered beam above the open closet. That's 
where it would happen, just outside the closet, Mark 
thought, how ironic.

"Read it to make sure, will you Richard?"

Diane's husband went over to the night-table where Mark 
had left the suicide note. He picked it up and read it 
out loud. In it, Mark explained how his life was 
meaningless, how he'd always wanted to be something he 
couldn't, how the shame and unhappiness of his desire 
to be a woman had undone him. He forgave everyone, 
including his ex-wife, and accepted full responsibility 
for his actions. He wanted to die. He was killing 
himself.

"It's all there," Richard said, "just like you told 
him. Air-tight and legal. There shouldn't be any 
suspicions or inquiries."

"You did a good job Monica," Diane said, approvingly. 
"You got it down to the letter. You'd have made an 
excellent secretary."

Mark ignored her sarcasm. He had already shown her the 
bank statements, the stock options, everything she 
hadn't managed to take from him in the divorce. He 
showed her the signed documents that made her his 
beneficiary in the event of his death. She'd taken most 
of it already... now she'd have the rest. All Mark 
asked in return was to be kept company in his final 
moments of agony even if the only audience he could 
find was an ex-wife who loathed him and a man amused 
and disgusted by him. All Mark asked in return for the 
money he bequeathed them was that didn't have to die 
alone.

No one will ever love you, you freak, Diane had mocked 
him when she discovered his secret three years before. 
And she'd been right. All Mark had found was quick, 
illicit sex in rooms like this one with desperate, 
angry, horny men. Sometimes they paid him. Sometimes 
they brought him off. Sometimes they beat him. They 
never loved him.

“It's time darling," Diane stated flatly. "Let's go 
honey. Let's get the show on the road. There's no sense 
dragging this on any longer than necessary."

She's so hard, so cold, Mark thought, not for the first 
time. But it surprised and saddened him to find that 
she'd be like this now, even at the end. He stood up 
shakily from the bed. He started across the room. The 
rope hanging from the ceiling was unavoidable now. It 
was his destination, his last and only true love. He 
felt his knees start to buckle.

"Steady there princess," Richard said.

Sobs shook Mark's feminized body. Tears ran hot over 
his cheeks. But he didn't faint or falter. He was going 
to die soon. He had already accepted that fact. The 
thought was terrible but also somehow comforting. It 
was the right thing to do, he knew. He would never fit 
in this world: it was better if he left it.

"Here," Richard said, "let me give you my chair."

"Ever the gentleman," Diane said drolly.

Richard laughed, turned, and winked at Mark. "Don't 
listen to her. You're doing fine, honey. Don't forget 
to put on your bracelets. They match your outfit 
perfectly. But do it after you get up on the chair and 
put the noose on. I'm afraid I can't take the risk of 
helping you up. Sorry..." he held up his gloved hands 
and grinned. "Touching is out. Can't leave any 
fingerprints on your pretty little body."

"Thank you Richard," Mark said quietly, slurring the 
words a little. "Thank you for being so kind to me."


"Think nothing of it honey. Now up you go."

Mark steadied himself with a hand on the back of the 
chair and stepped onto it as gracefully as he could. It 
was difficult in the suicide outfit he'd chosen: a 
tight white sheath dress, slit up the side and the gold 
sandals. He'd taken the handcuffs that Richard had left 
on the chair for him. Now, standing on the chair and 
trying to keep his balance, he quickly slipped the 
noose over his bowed bleach-blonde head. 

He reached up with slender white arms and tightened the 
knot. He felt the rope against the soft flesh of his 
throat and felt a sob catch in his throat. He took a 
deep breath and realized it would be one of his last. 
He slipped a slender wrist into one of the cold cuffs, 
put his arms behind his back, and snapped the other 
cuff closed.

Click.

He was finished. He put his head down again and saw 
through tear-filled eyes the soft white mounds of his 
breasts beneath the silky fabric of the sheath dress. 
Beyond that, his ten pink toes lined up together as he 
stood wit his feet demurely together on the chair.

"Go ahead," Diane said, "step off. Go ahead, do it 
already, for crissakes."

Helpless now, there was no turning back for Mark, and 
Diane knew it, and that meant there was little need to 
even pretend to care. There was nothing now but cold, 
heartless cruelty.

"I have to use the bathroom," Mark gasped. "I have to 
do pee. Please let me go to the bathroom."

"Goddammit I've never heard anything so ridiculous," 
Diane spat. "Richard, kick the fucking chair out from 
under him and let's get this over with."

"Wait a sec Diane," Richard said. He turned to Mark. 
"It's okay honey. You're just afraid. It's natural. If 
you squirt a little while you're dying, no one will 
blame you. I promise. Now just step off the chair, 
baby. Come on beautiful. Do you want me to help you?"

The pills were beginning to really take effect by now 
and Mark wanted nothing more than to lie down, to rest, 
to sleep forever. He wanted to go to sleep in this 
nightmare world and wake up in another where all his 
dreams would come true. He could barely stand upright 
any longer, but each time his knees bent he felt the 
tug of the noose, reminding him, waking him back to the 
nightmare. Richard's voice came to him from far away, 
but it sounded so kind, so friendly, so sweet.

"Do you want me to help you sweets?"

"Yes, help me," Mark whispered "please, please help 
me..."

"Okay princess... I'll help you."

Richard kicked the chair out from under him. Mark felt 
the crushing pressure against his throat immediately. 
His eyes closed on an impenetrable wall of white pain. 
His legs kicked spasmodically and he quickly lost both 
of his pretty gold sandals. He was hanging, barefoot, 
his painted toes stretched in vain almost a foot above 
the floor.

"It's happening," Diane said, excitedly, clapping her 
hands, "finally... I didn't think the stupid bitch 
would ever do it..."

Richard laughed huskily. He watched, fascinated, the 
strangely erotic dance of the slowly strangling sissy. 
"Dammit," he said, "dammit that's fucking sexy."

Mark's eyes, closed on the pain and the tears, squeezed 
open. He saw his ex-wife and her new husband standing 
up, pressed together, wildly fucking. They came several 
times, growing excited all over again, with every 
crisis Mark seemed to endure. He wanted to cry out for 
help, beg them to take him down, but he knew it was too 
late, and they'd never help him even if it weren't. His 
struggles had all but ended by now, anyway: he was 
almost there. It would be stupid to turn back now.

In spite of his effort to hold back, Mark's bladder 
suddenly released. The loss of control stunned the 
dying sissy. Hot urine splashed over his smooth thighs, 
soaked his white dress, and dripped off his already 
cold, curled toes. From somewhere, through the 
crackling congestion thickening inside his head, he 
could hear Diane barking with laughter. 

He closed his eyes and felt a series of involuntary 
seizures shake his body. In spite of the fact that his 
penis had been gaffed backwards, he felt himself cum in 
short, truncated bursts. This must be the end, he 
thought, the end of him.

Lights sparked and flashed behind Mark's closed 
eyelids. His whole body reverberated with the final 
beatings of his laboring heart. And then his mouth 
gaped open and no air came in...and no air went out. He 
was strangled, suffocated, and his tongue pushed out 
between his bloodied teeth. 

The congestion in his head had grown unbearable—it felt 
as if his brain were about to explode. Mark shuddered a 
last time and he lived just long enough to experience 
one final humiliation. He felt his bowels open and the 
soft, warm feces push through the thong panties 
splitting the smooth, perfect globes of his creamy 
white ass.

He was alone and long dead when they found him. His 
face so occluded from his ordeal on the end of the 
hanging rope that the detectives filling out the 
initial report paid the dead sissy what he would have 
considered the ultimate compliment if he'd been alive. 

He was taken to the morgue and put in a cold metal 
drawer and until the coroners stripped off his dress 
and had at him the tag on his pink toe was like a 
belated valentine. They had mistaken him for a woman. 
For a little while, anyway, he'd gotten his wish: he 
had died a girl.

END

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.

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