This thread is for girls to write stories about their own deaths in a first person POV. Your death can be murder, suicide, combat, or even accidental. Anything you wish. And, if you want to, you can make yourself younger or older for your story.
You may switch to a third person perspective after you have died in-story, if you want to go over what happens to your corpse.
My first story is inspired by a recent entry in the Killer and Victim thread.
My parents were strict. Decades ago, the government made it legal for parents to be as brutal as they like in punishing their kids. Of course my parents took advantage of this system, as I learned six years ago.
Back then I had an older sister: her name was Melissa. It seemed that not long after she turned thirteen that her wardrobe was mostly outfits that left very little to the imagination. She walked around in shorts so tight and short most of her ass cheeks squeezed out, or the smallest skirts she could find. Dad and mom both told her to stop, but Melissa rolled her eyes every time and went back to whatever it was she was doing.
One day, mom walked in and Melissa was laying on her belly in the living room with nothing more than an extra long T-shirt, without even a pair of undergarments to cover her pussy, and both legs spread and in the air. Our mother shook her head and left the room. Moments later she returned with a pistol in her hand. My sister didn't notice, too focused on whatever game she was playing on her phone, until mom fired six rounds into. She looked up, wheezing and coughing up blood, as my mother looked down at her with a stern expression.
"I told you to stop dressing like a little slut," she growled. Then she fired a bullet into her brain.
Mom took her body to a taxidermist and gave the stuffed corpse to my dad, so he could have something to keep him from cheating while she was on business trips.
I was on the couch when it happened, and my eight-year-old brain was horrified; I cried every night for six weeks, until my parents told me to shut up our I would be next. Then, as I entered puberty, that scene started to enter my fantasies. I soon began to think of mom shooting me and stuffing me for dad, and I rubbed myself to the thought.
Three weeks ago, the idea finally occurred to make my fantasy a reality. I began to walk around in tight, revealing, clothes, and stopped weariPost too long. Click here to view the full text.