Written by Pat O'Brien (address withheld)
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
spread-eagled 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 exercised
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 wedge, stood purple in a graceful arch proud from
his belly. "Eveready!" I giggled. I would put batteries
in his dick... a vibrator.
Feeling that my inappropriate humor 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 cross-legged 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 experimentally 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 ox tongues 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 realized 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 swollenness. 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
realized, 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 caresses.
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 marjoram 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.
END
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