("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`) (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-' _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,' (((' (((-((('' (((( K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N _________________________________________ WARNING! This text file contains sexually explicit material. If you do not wish to read this type of literature, or you are under age, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!! _________________________________________ Scroll down to view text -------------------------------------------------------- This work is copyrighted to the author © 2011. Please don't remove the author information or make any changes to this story. All rights reserved. Thank you for your consideration. -------------------------------------------------------- Divorce Rape by Ponera (ponera@aol.com) *** A short story about a man and his corpse. (MF, nec) *** Author Note: This story makes graphic mention of bizarre sexual acts, and if that bothers you, go read D.H. Lawrence or something. This isn't exactly very sexy, but I couldn't think of where else to post it. *** 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 graying 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, un-violated. 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 losing 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. END ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author does not condone the described behavior in real life. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Kristen's collection - Directory 69