111 lines
5.2 KiB
Plaintext
111 lines
5.2 KiB
Plaintext
THE DEAD LOVE
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Pat O'Brien
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At some stage during our Wednesday afternoon fuck, he died.
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I think I was aware that something had gone wrong but an
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instant's blank allowed me to convince myself that some
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remnant of early passion had returned. I redoubled my
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efforts with delight. What began as normal routine...me
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astride and doing all the work...he tied spreadeagled
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with silk scarves, became an adventure of unaccustomed
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grunts and bucks. His movement had never been as good
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as in these short moments and by the time his
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tongue protruded I was enjoying myself far too much to avoid
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the brink, then slide, of a rather wonderful orgasm.
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Until I collapsed, sweating on top of him...I avoided admitting
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that I felt no heartbeat. After a short and horrified gag I
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began to feel rather pleased. The bastard had given me a
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good ride for once, with a greater generosity of spirit than he
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ever excercised willingly. In fact, I remember thinking rather
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gleefully that, as I had rather grown to hate him...I was well
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pleased with his death and the fact that I had probably caused it.
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I slid off, kneeled beside him and studied him with
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interest, deciding that I rather liked him this way...especially
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as his prick, an almost unbelievably thick wadge, stood
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purple in a graceful arch proud from his belly. Everready!
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I giggled. I would put batteries in his dick...a vibrator.
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Feeling that my inappropriate humor may be a little
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hysterical I trailed to the shower, running the spray hot
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and examining my feelings. No, I definitely felt pleased
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and somewhat excited. Fond thoughts arose and I tiptoed to
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the door...ready for the disappointment he may have rallied,
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be grizzling for release. Delightfully he remained still.
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Suddenly hungry I skipped through the bedroom. I wagged my
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finger playfully, "You stay here, dear, you hear!". I
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laughed all the way down the stairs, filled a plate with
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cold chicken and salads and returned. I ate sitting
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crosslegged beside him, studying his body. His tongue was
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disconcerting, swollen and purple. Like his dick. I
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thought about this while I gnawed a chicken leg and found I
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was sliding it slowly on my lips. The cold felt good. I
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wondered if he would get cold...I wondered how long he would
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last. I wondered, eyeing his prick, if it would remain
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erect. My head slid a little, trying to remember anatomy,
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biology, anything.
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I found I had lowered the drumstick and was rubbing it
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thoughtfully along my thigh, then slit. It felt good, cold
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and fleshy...like a corpse? Well, he would not mind surely.
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I straddled him rubbing against his shaft. It did not feel
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the same, more like rubber...no pulse or shift...a
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dildo. Yes a dildo. Not terribly excited I experimently
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thrust on it and it slid in smoothly. I poked his chest.
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The dark curling hair felt right and sprang cutely against
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my fingers but the flesh dented, a small dip which
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bounced back slowly. I began to feel really
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comfortable. I bore down on him with little circling
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movements, at my leisure. He usually demanded I move
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differently, to please him. I pleased myself now, surprised
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that his generously proportioned member could so
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quickly afford me cuntal joy...and at my pace, not his.
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Suddenly I felt a great love overlay the lust. One thing I
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denied him in life I could give him in death...a love gift
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and with trembling I slipped off and turned...lowering
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myself on his bulging tongue. It reminded me of the
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fat oxtongues hefted by the butcher, and it rolled solidly
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across my perking clitoris. "Oh eat me" I breathed and
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plumped solidly on his mouth. The tongue sprang firmly
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along my slit. I parted my labia further with a shaking
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hand and with slightly sick excitement realised that I was
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drenching my fingers, I had never poured so wet. His tongue
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was shining with benedictory juices. I pulled it
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to me; it baulked and I forced it firmly, roundly bundling
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in my nook. At that stalled moment I came, pulsing firmly
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I could feel the rhythm clench its swolleness. The prick
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stared at me in one-eyed approval.
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I loved him so much in those gasping moments I thought I
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might pass with him into corpse-peace.
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Afterwards I cleaned him. Gently wiping his tongue with a
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warm flannel, cooing soft reassurances as I stroked his
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prick of my greases.
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I dozed in the big wing chair, waking protective. I
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realised, as the heat wore off the day that he would not
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last long and hurriedly enjoyed his stiffening edges in
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using abandonment, thanking him with grateful sobs and
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carresses.
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Much later I grew afraid, anxious as the hours passed,
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seeking signs of deterioration, smells, putrification.
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I scoured his private den, his library, but found no
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information. With huge regret I returned with the only
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solution to maintaining him, for me...a sharp knife.
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I broiled his tongue, adding majoram and a little red wine
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to the stock. His prick and balls I diced, mixed with feta
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and spinach and baked, wrapped in filo pastry. At dawn I
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packed the small wicker hamper with crispy rolls and a
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bottle of chilled Chablis and I went to White Sands to
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picnic. I never wasted a crumb...I was careful to absorb
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all of him as I had never been allowed to do while he lived.
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