in the flesh

 
in the flesh:
Horror Stories
2008-09-20
His rigid flesh seemed so alive under the press of my eager fingers. Although there was no pulse that coursed through him, I fancied that his veins breathed beneath my touch, that they gasped in ecstasy as I traced a path along their raised blue exquisiteness, that I had with my devout worship brought him back into the land of the living from the realm of the dead.

Had he been alive though, I would not have been there with him. Had he been alive, I would not have been be so desperately in love. Had he been alive, I would not have felt such an ache for him deep inside the bud. My heart bled for the loss of his life and it beat for his beauty in death.

I straddled him, my hot, moist thighs glistening with excited sweat. I pressed my wet palms to his chest and leaned over him gazing at his static beauty. I could wait no longer to kiss his full, blue lips, which were conveniently slightly parted as if they welcomed the warmth of my kiss. His cold shocked my hot mouth and made me gasp but I did not stop. Our heat and cold fought each other and for the very first time since I began defiling the dead I wanted my still lover to be alive.

I wanted to be in his deathly embrace, to feel his arms wrapped around me. I wanted to feel his icy palms on my ravening skin, to feel his chill whisper in my ear, the ice of his lips on my rigid nipples. I wanted to hear him gasp my name in the dark, to hear him say how good it felt to be so deep inside me, probing my wet heat with his exquisite cock. I wanted him to want me the way I wanted him, to look at me the way I looked at him, to love me the way I loved him, to need me the way I needed him. Hot tears stung my mournful eyes. I knew that my touch, my kiss, my dark passion would never be returned by him. I shivered from the chill of his skin as I caressed him, his rigid torso like that of a cold marble statue. I could see and feel the definition in every muscle as I traced the contours of his perfect biceps, his sculpted shoulders, the hard sinew on his chest, his abdomen and his huge, powerful thighs. His beauty was so breathtaking I felt it was a sin that he was dead. His still perfection made me weak with desire as I flicked my tongue over his nipples, kissed my way down his body and covered him in tender little bites.

I took his death-rigid cock in my hand, forcing it deep inside my dripping pussy. I moved rhythmically back and forth along the length of his dead meat. My mouth fell open in surprise at the voluptuousness of the sensation and in shock at the glacial cold that seeped into my loins. It spread through me, invaded me, infected me like a delicious virus for which there is no cure. It exhilarated and pacified me like an addict's fix.

I moaned into the semi-darkness of the echoing mortuary, lost to the sensations, so oblivious that there could have been someone watching and I would not have noticed them, would not have cared. My desire for him was agonising and blissful. I struggled with his death-frozen arms, pulling them upward, peeling open his death-grip, each finger protesting with a loud crack. I put his corpse-cold touch to my nipples, his caress so frozen that it burned me and I whimpered lamentations and ecstasies as I rubbed his thumb over my engorged, throbbing clit.

I was dizzy, completely absorbed and enslaved by sensation. He was beatific, a heavenly vision - an angel, no, more than a lowly angel - an archangel. I was fucking Gabriel and Michael, fucking saints and martyrs, I was fucking Jesus Christ himself.

I stroked down the length of the fresh autopsy wound on his torso with my fingers; it had not yet been sewn up. I could see the deepest red of the viscera inside him and the frozen-ocean blue of his plump, succulent veins. I could smell the scent of his dead meat. I wanted to fill him up, consume him; I wanted to be inside him the way he was inside me. I could not stop my desperate tongue from plunging into him.

I was frenzied, maddened by the desire to tenderly kiss his heart. My hands seemed to work on pulling apart his rib cage without my consent. Perhaps if I took his heart in my hands and kissed my passion to it, he would come back to life for me. Of course, I knew that he would not come back to life and that I could not resurrect him, but I had to do this. I needed to do this and if I did not I felt that I would go mad. If I did not try this I felt that I would die.

And there it was before me his still heart - passionate red and veined with bruised blue. I kissed it and kissed it and kissed it until I screamed with rage and grief and loss but still tears of unrivalled bliss almost sizzled on my burning skin. I was being reborn and redeemed, I was being purified, absolved by my lover, being saved by him - my dead Messiah.

As I came I shuddered and convulsed; a primal scream filled the unromantic white tiled mortuary and echoed off the walls, came back to me like the melancholy whisper of a ghost. The tears served to dilute my pain, carrying it away in a deluge of bitter grief and my flowing cum was the purge of my sins, the cleansing of my soul.

I lay there on top of him, the heat of my body creating tiny little droplets of condensation that fell from my skin onto his. I was breathing hard into his parted lips, gasping into him as if I could make his dead lungs breath once again.

I held him tightly in my arms as I lay there spent and satisfied, my heart fit to burst under the swell of my love and my grief. My limbs and my womb still twitched as the last vestiges of my devastating climax lingered on. I whispered to him that I loved him, that this soulless mortuary was the chapel in which I worshipped him.

And I knew then that he was the one, the one I would love, the one I would always remember, the one I would be with each time I chose a new dead lover. He was the one that I would always be searching for, among the living and among the dead.

I know that I will go on and on with my adoration, I will continue to shower him with my devotion until the day comes when he is taken from me. I will go on loving him, being saved by him, until another lays claim to him, until he is ripped from my arms and given to the earth's muddy womb to nourish her. I know that even if I live forever, I shall never find another quite like him, but I know that my desperate search will never end.


Alex Severin
 



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