Finale ???
Posted by Barbanne on October 14, 2004 at 00:55:24:
OVER MY DEAD BODY
A doctor, I think, a gynaecologist actually, once said that there was a direct correlation between a woman's mouth size and the size of her vagina.
Tight, mean little mouth, tight, mean little vagina.
Big, open, wet mouth, big, open, wet vagina.
I myself have a huge, wide, sloppy mouth.
That's why when I got out of the shower, rubbed dry and glowing pinkly nude, I lay on my back on my bed and pushed apart my outer labia and let my fingers explore my big, soft, sensitive, tunnel of love.
Ah there was my clit!, aroused, hardening and promising untold delights.
Damn a knock on the door.
Reluctantly I climbed off the bed and walked out, still stark naked and opened it.
"Oh shit!!"
All I saw was the cold, black, hole at the end of the barrel of a small bore gun. I didn't even register who was holding it and then it spat yellow flame at me.
A relatively tiny slug of lead punched a neat hole in the right side, down slope of my left breast, ripped through tissue and muscle, ricocheted off a rib and skidded sideways through my heart, wrecking it, bruising stuff unmercifully, stopping my heart and killing me instantly.
Stone dead.
I flew backward, propelled by the force of the impact and landed on my back, arms outflung to the sides and legs spread, that big pussy nestling in the small thicket of beaver pelt that surrounded it.
Out completely like a switched off light.
Certainly didn't put up much of a fight.
My unknown assailant (it was a he) couldn't turn up the opportunity for sex, necro sex with such an inviting corpse and, after pausing briefly standing above and over my dead body, he unbuckled his belt, slid his trousers down and fell on me, his engorged and insistent great cock sinking into my openly inviting dead cunt.
It can't have been all that great for him.
My lax, flaccid vaginal muscles provided no tight, hard sex, no vigorous fucking, just a loose, limp, flabby, sloppy, wet shag.
And although he sucked and slobbered on my tits they provided little fun being small and flat and crowned with hard, pebbly little nipples.
But, being a man, he grunted his way to a satisfied climax.
Satiated he left, closing the door to my flat and leaving me sprawled out, my cunt sticky with his cum and my body splayed out, my eyeballs rolled completely back only white showing between my slitted eyelids, blood oozing out between my clenched teeth in a shiny dark red dribble and only a neat, round blackened hole to show where the bullet went in. No exit wound, it was still inside my chest resting in the bloody internal ruin it had made.
My small living room was full of people.
Cops, crime scene investigators, medical examiner's staff, detectives, all the suits (and some casual dressers) who descended on any murder scene. And as all of these fully dressed and focussed and intent people moved around doing their jobs, the centre of attention was the naked and spread out me.
Or at least my bare, nude, defenceless and helpless dead body.
Good thing I was dead don't you think?
If I'd retained even only the tiniest spark of life I'd have been suffering utter humiliation. Totally and completely debased and shamed. I mean stretched out on my back naked as the day I was born and being photographed, measured, poked and prodded, handled and fingerprinted and studied and discussed............ah how could I have stood it?
I would have LOVED it.
I mean, you know me.
Well, I ask you, I mean what do you think? All those people hovering over my dead body?
Heaven for a submission freak who aches to be humiliated. But now it was for real. They were extracting every last shred of evidence from a freshly slain corpse and I was that corpse!
That must be why when you're dead you can't move a muscle, can't blink or twitch or even shiver.
Nothing.
Nada.
Motionless, lifeless, completely at their mercy, only able to respond at their beck and call. All a corpse can do is lie there and enjoy being dead. Dead and totally, absolutely victimised.
Their work went on for hours and in all that time Barbanne never moved a millimetre unless they turned me or rolled me and amazing of amazings, she didn't have anything at all to say.
Not a word.
Not a syllable.
Not even a letter.
Little Miss Gabby, can you believe it?
Finally the detectives and the ME cleared my body for removal and it was loaded into a body bag, zipped up and placed on a gurney for removal to the morgue.
Wheeled out by two hunky spunks in green.
The ride of my life.......oops death I mean.
In the morgue.
Unloaded from my body bag and laid out on a stainless steel autopsy table, nude, still dead and attended by pathologists who surrounded me, standing around and over my dead body.
Today, as well as the ME's appointee there were medical students in attendance to watch me get filleted like a fish and with the morgue attendants a total of eight people were surrounding the prime exhibit, my nude and dead corpse.
Four of the students were female and they exchanged glances and giggled embarrassedly to be confronted by a naked and dead babe, laid out on her back, head tilted back, eyes half closed, mouth gaping open, tongue somewhat swollen in between two rows of small white teeth and with her tits droopily splaying apart and her pinkly aroused pussy nestling in a little thatch of curly pubic hair. Of course a dribble of dried blood on my teeth and lips and that tell tale bullet hole did nothing for my feminine allure.
No such embarrassment for the pathologist and, describing his every action quite chattily, he set to work to carve up my corpse, doing awful things to me like hacking that classic Y incision from my shoulders to my navel and peeling my tits to either side and then cracking open my rib cage to trace the path of the fatal bullet before removing my organs for weighing and future testing. Then (horrors) he sliced through my forehead just below the hairline and peeled my face down and laid it on my chin so he could saw his way inside my skull.
Good thing I was dead eh? I'd not enjoy this otherwise.
By the time he'd finished desecrating me and haad sort of put me back the way I was so that his assistants could sew me together again those girls weren't giggling, no indeed they were looking pretty green and fighting the urge to throw up their breakfasts.
Off they all went to classes or appointments or whatever, life anyway, leaving the morgue attendants and my newly sewn up naked corpse as the sole occupants of the refrigerated room.
Moving on to the mortuary.
My body had been chilled and bundled up and delivered to the Final Rest Funeral Home.
The mortician, a cute brunette, worked on me turning my ruined corpse into a reasonable facsimile, a kind of caricature of myself applying scads of makeup to hide the evidence of the bullet hole and the subsequent autopsy. When she was finished I looked rosily dead. That look of an overly cosmeticised tart. She and her assistant laid me out in a satin lined coffin and after no-one had come to view my technicolour cadaver I was closed in and carted off to the cemetery where a lonely priest stood above my suspended dead body and recited his message by rote and then left the grave diggers to consign me to the earth.
Nobody came to mourn my wasted life.
And so the clods of earth slammed onto my coffin (which along with my dead carcass had been stripped of everything valuable by the opportunist grave diggers) and I was relegated to the cold wet earth as should every old story teller when she has truly run out of any original ideas for new plots.
Farewell to my friends and readers and thanks for reading over the years.