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.

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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 wearing bras and panties completely.

"Keep wearing shit like that, and your dad will get a new trophy. Don't think I'm playing with you," Mom scolded when I sat down at the dinner table in a cropped T-shirt and miniskirt.

It was any day. Dad was at work and mom just left for the store, and I decided to make it that day.

As soon as the car pulled out I threw off my blouse and laid back on the floor, in the exact same spot Melissa died in. I lifted my skirt and began to softly rub my labia. I went slow, and stopped if I felt to be edging too close. After thirty minutes I heard a car door shut and footsteps approaching; my heart seemed lime it wanted to burst from its' chest. The doorknob began to turn so I inserted my right index and middle fingers into my pussy and fucked myself frantically.

"Good God! Kaylee! What the fuck? Why here?"

My mom slammed the door and went into her room. This was it. I thrust my fingers in and out faster, making loud sloshing noises. Then I slipped two left fingers between my slit, and withdrew a dripping slime of my juices. I let it drip into my mouth before wrapping my lips around my fingers to slurp the juices off.

My mother comes out moments later wielding a shotgun.

Oh shit! Will there be anything left of me for dad? I thought as she entered the room. I began to thrust faster. I edged closer.

"That is such a disgusting thing to do in front of everyone!"

She loaded two shells and aimed stuck it between my thighs. BANG! Agony pulsated outwards as my crotch exploded into chunks. My right arm emerged from beneath my skirt with a stump where my hand used to be. The pain was immense, as if my lower torso was on fire, but I was unable to scream. My vision became blurry as I lost blood.

"If only you and your sister were modest."

Mom placed the gun against the bridge of my nose; my last moments were staring down those barrels. Then, my consciousness ceased as everything above my nose splattered across the floor in a gooey paste.

My perky breasts ended up on a plaque above dad's side of the bed, and the rest of my body was ground up into fertilizer.