Posted by Dead Leslie on July 01, 2006 at 22:26:15:
Death be not Cruel Pt I
by Dead Leslie
He reached her as he struggles faded and her life fled her body. He had walked into the small apartment's bedroom to find his wife weakly dancing at the end of a nooose. The momentary shock that rooted him to the floor was enough to seal her fate.
Tears blinding him he struggled forward, grasping her by the thighs and despreatly trying to lift her to allow her air--so safe the beautiful woman he loved. It was to no avail. Her feet twitched their last macabre tatoo against his chest, and as a final indignity, her bladder relaxed, allowing urin to run down her trembling legs and the amrs of the lover who held them.
The silence of her passing was marred only by his uncontrolable weaping as he collapsed beneath her dangling corpse and cursed the illness that drove her to this desperate act.
It had seemed for awhile as if her depression was passing, after all, she had returned to work, and had just purchased a new wardrobe, all had seemed well. Now, with her gently swinging above the damp carpet, her letter in his treembling hands, he understood the fiction of it all.
"My dearest, please don't hate me, but I could no longer bear the crushing darkness, nor the chilling numbness the pills left me with. I walk this path so I may be free of the cloud that hangs over us and our marriage--this way you can be free to find someone who is not so sick as I.
"You will find on the bed the cloths I wish to be buried in. I also ask that you clean me up and dress me in something nice before calling emergency services--I don't want to be found having pissed myself."
He crumples the note and looked up. Her head hung down, and though her face was swolen from her struggles, she seemed to be happy and at peace--her hair hung about her like an auburn halo, and the tension that she had carried in her shoulders had drained away with her life, leaving her seemingly relaxed.
Her death hadn't seemed to be cruel to her at least.
He stood on the chair she hung beside, and slowly let her down. As he now looked down at her lying on the floor she reminded him of nothing so much as a marionette with its strings cut.
He picked her up, finding her corpse lighter than expected, and carried her to their bed. The smell of urin and death hung in the air, but he could also smell her perfume and....something else.
As he arranged the corpse on the bed he was overcome again with a wave of numbing grief which drove him to his knees. He gathered her by the shoulder and clung to her, burying his face in her chest. As he sought comfort in the touch of her still warm body, he recognised the scent that had touched him.
Gently, tentativly, he slipped his hand down the waistband of her pants and touched his wife's damp and cooling womanhood. It was slick with something other than piss, and he knew even without withdrawing his hand and smelling it that she had climaxed as she died.
Had she known he was there in her last moments? Had the orgasm washed over her when he grabbed her thigs whil trying to save her?
He brought his finger to his nose, the delicate scent of his wife clinging to it, and he smiled. Had she planned it this way?
"Oh you bad girl." He said sadly, yet aroused, "We're going to have to fuck you as punishement for this."
To be continued....