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The Dead Love
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Copyright 1993 Pat O'Brien
All permissions reserved except for the right to distribute in
electronic text form across computer networks.
THE DEAD LOVE
Pat O'Brien
At some stage during our Wednesday afternoon fuck, he died.
I think I was aware that something had gone wrong but an
instant's blank allowed me to convince myself that some
remnant of early passion had returned. I redoubled my
efforts with delight. What began as normal routine...me
astride and doing all the work...he tied spreadeagled
with silk scarves, became an adventure of unaccustomed
grunts and bucks. His movement had never been as good
as in these short moments and by the time his
tongue protruded I was enjoying myself far too much to avoid
the brink, then slide, of a rather wonderful orgasm.
Until I collapsed, sweating on top of him...I avoided admitting
that I felt no heartbeat. After a short and horrified gag I
began to feel rather pleased. The bastard had given me a
good ride for once, with a greater generosity of spirit than he
ever excercised willingly. In fact, I remember thinking rather
gleefully that, as I had rather grown to hate him...I was well
pleased with his death and the fact that I had probably caused it.
I slid off, kneeled beside him and studied him with
interest, deciding that I rather liked him this way...especially
as his prick, an almost unbelievably thick wadge, stood
purple in a graceful arch proud from his belly. Everyready!
I giggled. I would put batteries in his dick...a vibrator.
Feeling that my inappropriate humour may be a little
hysterical I trailed to the shower, running the spray hot
and examining my feelings. No, I definitely felt pleased
and somewhat excited. Fond thoughts arose and I tiptoed to
the door...ready for the disappointment he may have rallied,
be grizzling for release. Delightfully he remained still.
Suddenly hungry I skipped through the bedroom. I wagged my
finger playfully, "You stay here, dear, you hear!". I
laughed all the way down the stairs, filled a plate with
cold chicken and salads and returned. I ate sitting
crosslegged beside him, studying his body. His tongue was
disconcerting, swollen and purple. Like his dick. I
thought about this while I gnawed a chicken leg and found I
was sliding it slowly on my lips. The cold felt good. I
wondered if he would get cold...I wondered how long he would
last. I wondered, eyeing his prick, if it would remain
erect. My head slid a little, trying to remember anatomy,
biology, anything.
I found I had lowered the drumstick and was rubbing it
thoughtfully along my thigh, then slit. It felt good, cold
and fleshy...like a corpse? Well, he would not mind surely.
I straddled him rubbing against his shaft. It did not feel
the same, more like rubber...no pulse or shift...a
dildo. Yes a dildo. Not terribly excited I experimently
thrust on it and it slid in smoothly. I poked his chest.
The dark curling hair felt right and sprang cutely against
my fingers but the flesh dented, a small dip which
bounced back slowly. I began to feel really
comfortable. I bore down on him with little circling
movements, at my leisure. He usually demanded I move
differently, to please him. I pleased myself now, surprised
that his generously proportioned member could so
quickly afford me cuntal joy...and at my pace, not his.
Suddenly I felt a great love overlay the lust. One thing I
denied him in life I could give him in death...a love gift
and with trembling I slipped off and turned...lowering
myself on his bulging tongue. It reminded me of the
fat oxtongues hefted by the butcher, and it rolled solidly
across my perking clitoris. "Oh eat me" I breathed and
plumped solidly on his mouth. The tongue sprang firmly
along my slit. I parted my labia further with a shaking
hand and with slightly sick excitement realised that I was
drenching my fingers, I had never poured so wet. His tongue
was shining with benedictory juices. I pulled it
to me; it baulked and I forced it firmly, roundly bundling
in my nook. At that stalled moment I came, pulsing firmly
I could feel the rhythm clench its swolleness. The prick
stared at me in one-eyed approval.
I loved him so much in those gasping moments I thought I
might pass with him into corpse-peace.
Afterwards I cleaned him. Gently wiping his tongue with a
warm flannel, cooing soft reassurances as I stroked his
prick of my greases.
I dozed in the big wing chair, waking protective. I
realised, as the heat wore off the day that he would not
last long and hurriedly enjoyed his stiffening edges in
using abandonment, thanking him with grateful sobs and
carresses.
Much later I grew afraid, anxious as the hours passed,
seeking signs of deterioration, smells, putrification.
I scoured his private den, his library, but found no
information. With huge regret I returned with the only
solution to maintaining him, for me...a sharp knife.
I broiled his tongue, adding majoram and a little red wine
to the stock. His prick and balls I diced, mixed with feta
and spinach and baked, wrapped in filo pastry. At dawn I
packed the small wicker hamper with crispy rolls and a
bottle of chilled Chablis and I went to White Sands to
picnic. I never wasted a crumb...I was careful to absorb
all of him as I had never been allowed to do while he lived.
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