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From: ponera@aol.com (Ponera)
Subject: A divorce rape: (necro??)
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This is a very rough first draft, and I'm sorry for posting it.  It's
the idea of posting it that gave me the energy to finish it though ,
so here it is.  A few disclaimers before the meat of the story:

(1) This is the first story, erotic or otherwise, that I've written
since high school.  So feedback to <ponera@aol.com> would be much
appreciated.

(2) This story makes graphic mention of bizzare sexual acts, and if
that bothers you, go read D.H. Lawrence or something.

(3) This isn't exactly very sexy, but I couldn't think of where else
to post it than a.s.s.

(4) This story is copyright 1997 by Ponera.


A Divorce Rape.

One day I woke up, and next to me on the bed was a corpse.  It was the
corpse of my ex-lover, and it was cold and stiff.  It was stretched
out, turned on its side, facing the wall. It weighed down into the
mattress, creating a well that sucked me towards the body.  It was
naked, and so was I, and I did not care; I let my own skin crash into
the hard, decaying meat of my old love.  I could smell an odor like
that in a butcher shop: an acrid smell of mutilation and slow, onset
of rot.  But there was no heat in the corpse to waft this odor aloft,
and so it was only when my nose came close to the greying skin, or was
intercepted by one of the room's listless shifts of air that I smelled
this.

The hair on the corpse was still the same as when she had been alive,
but then it had been dead even back then.  I hooked a few strands in
my finger and brought them to my face.  The smell was on them as well.
I caressed my cheek with that doubly dead hair.

I dreaded turning the body over to look at its face.  I knew there
would be nothing in those eyes that would look back at me.  Yet turn
it over I did, its stiff leaden mass resisting me as I shifted it away
from its natural position.  It rocked unsteadily in a supine position,
like a phone receiver placed upside down on a table.  Bereft of life,
it would no longer conform to its environment or my wishes.  The head,
which had been turned into the pillow before, still faced away from
me.

I ripped the blankets from the bed and climbed on top of it.  It was
its eyes I had wanted to see, but it was the breasts my eyes were
drawn to.   Useless lumps of misshapen blubber, they were disgustingly
lacking in everything that had enthralled my body when she was alive.
I remembered the mastectomy I had watched as a pre-med; the surgery
had been swift and precise, the wounds stitched up into hermaphroditic
scars that had been robbed of both contour and nipples.  Later I had
been with the pathologist as he was examining the excised tissue; they
had been bloated pink masses riddled with yellow fat deposits and
lymph nodes.  The pathologist had sliced them into bits like salamis.
The smell had been a combination of the raw butcher-block smell of
surgery and the sterile, chemical cover-up of a mortuary.  

That image combined with the one confronting me now, in the corpse's
vile crumpled sacs.  I thought in disgust how I had clambered to grope
these fatty bags and stuff their nipples into my mouth...  with life
had also fled the erotic.  What remained was revolting.

The eyes were glaringly open and staring slightly off-center.  I
maneuvered my face in front of them and looked into them.  The pupils
were hugely dilated, like a cat's at night, and there was only a thin
ring of color around them.  The lenses were clouded-over and dull.
The eyes were impossibly still.  Even as my own made their minute
adjustments  and re-focuses, those of my ex-lover were locked rigidly
into their sockets. To move my face was to remove myself from their
gaze.  Behind them was no will to follow me.  I was as much an object
as the creaking frame of the bed beneath me was.

Yet I could not tear my face away from their dead stare.  I crouched
down closer and let my lips touch the leering, slightly open mouth
below me.  There was no breath, and a stench lay in it like cold used
air in a dry well.  It was a stench of innards, of hemorrhaged lungs,
of bacterial decomposition.  I breathed in sharply through my nose,
and the moribund air invaded me.  A true kiss of death, it diffused
into my living flesh, ravaging me with nausea and arousing me.

The old desire began its cancerous conquest of my body.  I stretched
out over the corpse, feeling its rigidity press back like a cobbled
stone floor in winter.  With the weight of two people pressing into
it, the mattress yielded, forming a stabilizing cup around the curved
stiff back of the
 
cadaver.  My body was not as yielding, and I could feel bones grating on 
bones through my muscle and her meat.  The stiff flesh sucked at my 
body's heat.

I kissed the mouth.  The tongue was dry and unyielding, like left over
poultry.  I wedged my face deep into her jaws, and the stiff tongue
stimulated me as it had in life. I let up on the pressure, and lifted
my face away.  Her eyes were in the same position, looking slightly
past my right ear.

I licked the lips wetly, and kissed them again.  Staring into those
absorbing eyes I whispered "I love you".  It had been five years since
I had last heard her answer to that: "I'm sorry" from the other end of
a long-distance phone call. As if in punctuation, the line had gone
dead at that, the last I had talked to her. That reply, to me, had
been even more vacant than the rigid, insensate stiffness I received
from her now.

I wasn't ready to give up yet. Clumsily I crawled up to straddle her
face.  My penis, aroused but still pliant, hung in front of her eyes.
In life those eyes had hungered for me, had washed me with a torrent
of desire that obviated the self-doubt and self-hate I had carried
with me.  Now, in front of their coldness, I felt naked.  It was the
first time I felt like this since that first day when she had knelt,
smilingly, at my belt, and had stripped me bare. 
 
I was unsure, scared, embarrassed.  I splayed my knees until my wilting 
penis touched the lips that I had left moistened with my saliva.  
Grasping myself in one hand, I used my cock like a lipstick, rubbing it 
along the perimeter of her frozen sneer. I came to life again, stiffening, 
burning: no longer with love, but with a residue of hate and pain.

I rose from my splayed, dog-like crouch to stare into her eyes for the
third time that morning.  This time I penetrated past the
cataract-lenses, past the black void of her pupils, deep into the
emptiness where her soul had been.  Something in me began to gloat.
She had been destroyed, and all that was left was this shell of
worm-meat.  I spat repeatedly into her mouth, and then pried her jaws
apart.  Hard and incensed, I plunged my cock into her mouth, feeling
her tongue sliding against me like a second penis.

Again my desire died.  I knew I could leave.  I did not have to do
this.  It wasn't too late to keep her memory intact, unviolated.  I
could go on feeding off that memory as I had been doing, tapping into
it in times of weakness and loneliness.  I did not have to do what I
was about to, but I would.  It would destroy the one foundation of
love my crumbling self was built on.  But it would also destroy the
dependence.  Every morsel of strength I extracted from the memory of
our dead love came at a price; the memory would grow heavier and
denser, harder to drag around.  Yes, it was my foundation. Yes, it was
my prison.

I stared through her irises again, this time my gaze as cold as hers.
I let my  cock wilt fully. I held it in my hand like a tiny flaccid
maggot. She'd never scorned its size, or my emaciated body, or the
clumsiness of my first time with her.  Now, bereft of the
consciousness that had made her beautiful, she did.  Her mouth
sneered, her eyes mocked, and mine did the same back to her.  In cold,
grey death, she was finally more revolting than I.

I let it out into her mouth, feeling rage and scorn and lust explode
into life as I defiled her with my piss.  Her mouth was wet and warm
with it when I began fucking it again.  Yet there was no softness or
femininity there: just the stiffness of her tongue fucking me back, in
a fetid pool of piss and decaying flesh. I hated myself for the
ugliness of what I was doing, and I hated her for it even more.  The
rage was fuel for my lust, and I was loosing control.  I held back.
Much as I wanted to add my come to that mix, it was not yet time.

I withdrew, still stiff, scraped and bleeding slightly from her teeth.
I kissed her again, gagging on the smell and taste of her ulcerating
insides and the acridity of my piss.  I began fucking her belly as I
kissed, remembering the time she had kissed me with my own cum.  Her
legs were parted slightly and I pushed my cock between them, lapping
her face as the juices swilled out of her mouth.

It hurt.  She was hard and dry, and I might as well have been fucking
sandpaper.  I pushed deeper.  It was excruciating and this inflamed me
all the more.  "fuck you bitch," I gurgled into her mouth.  It wasn't
just the raw, scraping on my cock that I was feeling.  A dam was
breaking open and all the brackish hurt of 5 years of denial flooded
out.  I must have been crying, but I was too crazed to notice.
Eventually the physical pain drowned out everything but the hate, and
I fucked her pussy madly, lubricating it first with what little piss
remained from her mouth, then oozing blood and lymph, and finally
pre-cum.

I arched my back and stared violently into her eyes.  I pounded into
her corpse, raping her with my cock as she raped me with her dead
eyes.  At the last second, as my own orgasm exploded, a hiss of gas
escaped her throat.

"She hates me now", I thought, as the last spasms receded into
darkness.

It is over.  I lie in the cooling liquid of my masturbation, a wet
stain of sweat under me.  I have burned something out of me, cast off
a layer like a snake shedding used skin.  The hate has receded into
hiding again, and it is lighter, more diffuse than it had been.
Tingling over my skin is a peaceful, limpid, contentedness.  One might
even call it love.

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