Posted by Dead Leslie on July 25, 2008 at 23:55:05:
Author's Note: In thew same vein as my 'Mortal Beloved' and inspired by a long-ago discussion on the Post Mortem Board--a funeral fantasy if you will.
Le Petite Mort
by Dead Leslie
The
lights are dimmed, and you, my lover, are alone as you approach the
casket. Your heart races. You've not seen me since my death, and you're
filled with equal parts dread, and desire.
You lift the hardwood lid, and are at first struck by the delicate scent of my perfume, then as your eyes adjust to the poorly lit interior, you are struck by how peaceful and composed I look.
My red hair is neatly arrayed about me; it cascades down the pink satin pillow and beneath my shoulders. My silk blouse lays slightly parted--the top buttons undone, allowing you to see the hollow of my cleavage, and nestled within, the crucifix you gave me oh so long ago. You eye strays to the small tents my nipples (now stiff in death) pitch in the light blue fabric. You fingers itch to touch them, to pinch them, and to caress my pliant breasts.
You lick you lips, passion enflamed, as you continue to drink in the sight of my corpse. My hands--now alabaster--are gently folded on the small bulge of my tummy. I hold a single rose between stiff and cold fingers. You close your eyes and remember a time when those fingers--alive and warm--caressed you, and ran themselves through your hair.
The pleats of my grey pants are sharp, as are the creases of the pant legs that hide my thin and shapely calves. Not so hidden are my feet--unencumbered by shoes, but clad in the sheer, nude stockings I so loved in life. My shoes, sensible though they may have been, are nestled within the folds of satin beside me--destined to be buried with their owner of a mere three days. The cruel joke, so deftly played upon me by death, leaves my feet curled and arched as if frozen in the moment of orgasm. I am barefoot in death, much as I preferred to be in life.
You lick your lips again, memories of our lovemaking rushing back to you. Tears well up as you again think of how you will never again feel the press of my body against yours, or experience the beauty of my lazy smile as we bask in the afterglow of wild, animal fucking.
You bend low, and drink in my perfume again. Your lips hover above mine, your tongue running along the cold, crimson stiffness that once pleasured you orally--and now destined never to do so again. Bolder now, your hand slips into my blouse to fondle my left tit. Poking and prodding and squeezing as you kiss my face. Unsatisfied, you move lower, and fumble with the button on my pants.
I wear nothing beneath the pantyhose; shorn even of my strawberry bush by morticians you realize likely took liberties with me already. Your hand slips underneath the waist of the nylons, and you marvel at the smoothness of my mound. No matter the fucking the morticians may have given me, they at least cleaned me up well.
You fingers play for a moment at my lips--one on each side, with your middle finger rubbing at their slightly parted opening. Gently, as you did when I was once alive, your finger plays across my lips, as if knocking on a door. Where once I might have giggled and pushed you in with my own hand, now I lay silent, yet not unwilling.
You press, and with slight resistance, my corpse allows the finger entry. A wave of heat washes over you, and you know that your last opportunity is upon us. Again you drink in the sight of me in my repose.
The tragic beauty of my body as it lies in state is a far cry from the almost comedic position my final moments left me in. There I would lie until found, facedown in a pool of my own urine, vomit and blood. My disheveled hair, and broken stiletto heel the silent witnesses to the fatal rush about the house that brought me to a crashing finale. Fear not, dear one, for I was thinking of you before that fateful tumble--but sadly the wetness between my legs post-mortem was made not of my lust, but of the piss that leaked from my cunt when I died.
Ironic that for all our experiments with water sports, my biggest gush goes wasted, as I die alone and horney. So I would stay prostrate, my luscious ass in the air as if awaiting penetration, cooling and stiffening and waiting for you.
And now here you are, suddenly as lustful as I at the moment of my demise.
You slide your finger in and out of my cold, dry cunt, allowing it to caress the velveteen softness of my inner folds, while your thumb gently dances about my clit. You push deeper and harder, the palm of your hand now pressing against my pelvis in a vain attempt to stimulate me; to feel me push my hips back against your hand, yet I am still. Any movement of my body is not of its volition, as you push faster and faster, deeper and deeper inside me.
My corpse is swaying to the rhythm of your finger. My head now tapping a staccato beat against the casket, as if against the headboard of a bed. Perhaps that too is appropriate, as this casket is the bed I take my final rest in.
Sweat stands out on your body as you pant with your exertions. Then, there is a stab of pain in your arm, and you pause, looking not at my pale face, but at where you have been bitten. In your passion you have forgotten the rose clenched in my dead fingers--but it has not forgotten you. A rivulet of blood runs from the gash torn by the thorn, down your arm, to drip from your palm into my awaiting womanhood. Somberly you withdraw, leaving some of your behind to dwell within me forever.
You tidy up, hiding the smear of blood that remains on my pale, bald pussy behind the flap of my pants, now buttoned and zippered and once more tastefully arranged.
With a farewell kiss, and a final mournful glance, you close the lid of the casket, leaving me to my eternal rest.
But for you, my wicked, my lover, there is no rest, but only the agony of unfulfilled carnal desire. Tonight I shall haunt you, my beloved. Tonight neither the memory of our love, nor the not-yet-forgotten feeling of my hairless cunt in your hand will fulfill you.
For this evening you have finger fucked my cold, dead body, and tonight, with dreams of me dancing in your head, you will masturbate yourself to exhaustion.
Let come Le Petite Mort.