I could tell by her mood swings that she hadn't been getting any for quite a while ... and then ... out of the blue ... he came:
A Friday night guy, just before closing.
For her it was perfect timing. 'A Mother Nature thing', she would call it.
Mother Nature had a habit of looking after horny women like Lucy ... she would drop them onto the doorstep for her ... bang on time ... just when she was about to burst.
I looked at the way his blue hospital gown stood to attention at the crotch. A little uncommon, even with young guys like him.
"I think the paramedics pumped quite a bit of medication through him. He has a priapism."
"I know" she said, annoyed by me pointing out the obvious. "I'll take care of him."
The tender, yet dismissive tone in her voice made me turn quickly to leave.
You weren't meant to discuss sex with Lucy in the workplace, even when her warm cunt was giving off the obvious.
Just before I left the prep room, I noticed the shaking in her hands.
"Are you alright?"
"I'm fine", she replied as she continued to stare at the promising condition of her lifeless, soon-to-be, lover.
"Are you sure? Your hands appear to be..."
"Steve..." she cut in whilst turning to me, " ... we have a week's worth of paperwork that need sorting. Can you do that for me!!"
"No problem", I said with a faint smile.
Her frustrated command echoed through my mind as I returned to the office - her pussy was now wordlessly giving the directions.
Keeping the door open, I listened to her as she walked quickly past to lock the funeral home for the night. Her tension ran deep and a priapism only lasted some hours after death, unless something was done to preserve it of course.
I sensed that she preferred them in their natural state, it was less work for her.
There was the sound of keys clicking inside the front door, followed by the squeak of her shoes on the linoleum floor. Looking blankly at the stack of invoices, I listened to the sounds her shoes made as they drifted past me before purposefully fading back down the corridor in the direction of the prep room. The sound of the door slamming signalled a new silence, it was also a reminder for me not to disturb her. Her mood said it all. She often took it out on guys if they made her wait too long, I sometimes witnessed the aftermath when I stayed back late at night.
Under the desk's lamplight, I leafed through the paperwork whilst estimating in my mind how many guys she'd had at her funeral home. Since the start of my contract, even with just the ones I knew about, I'd lost count...
Lucy knew I wouldn't get her into trouble.
She had an uncanny intuition about who she could trust, especially when it came to guys. Back at school, I was known as the quiet student. The shy kind who didn't say a peep. I was often overshadowed by the more outspoken guys and she knew I had an almost sub-zero social standing, which she actively sought whilst interviewing the applicants. She knew that there would be a real threat to her order if she'd invited some loud-mouthed, popular jock into her world.
Despite any high school and hometown associations we happened to share, these were cast aside as her eyes bore straight through me during my interview. I felt vulnerable as she threw me question after question. Each one carefully planned and prepared but not to be completely understood until I'd actually signed my contract.
As soon as I'd started my induction, it all came back in a flood.
Reasonably paid jobs were scarce in our small town and her younger brother and I were on the same football team. We shared some informal, binding agreement on this.
I eventually found myself with a burning curiosity about why she did what she did, and also how she did it.
The serious, stunning, unattainable, pale-skinned, raven-haired Lucy. Born and raised in a funeral home and with seemingly little effort could squeeze any man, living or dead, into shape like putty between her strong and decisive fingers. When she saw what she wanted, she got it.
She knew that my tongue would not wag, just like the tongues of her many lovers whom she slipped so willingly between her warm, pale thighs before their scheduled, predetermined burials.
Any living guy would have dated Lucy, but they didn't interest her. It was one of those bizarre paradoxes in life that I could not find an explanation for and it stemmed from her origins and my misunderstanding of female necrosexuality.
I did not want to try and imagine the consequences. If I even considered the idea of busting her for her indecent acts towards the men she had: the fathers, husbands, brothers, sons from every conceivable age group who had all met her premeditated advances without any consent or choice in the matter. Her brother would instantly set himself to discredit or even destroy me. He would protect his adorable little (older) sister with a firm conviction that the false accusation was solely designed to bring the family into disrepute. I realised, rather quickly, that the headstrong Lucy would require no brotherly protection.
Of course, once she knew I could be trusted she had to put me through a series of initiations to harden me up to the many tasks that lay ahead...
Not too long past my induction, certain, non-standard equipment began to appear in the prep room.
At the beginning, there was the odd, improvised device like her foot pump.
With genuine naivete, I asked her what the purpose of such an instrument was. I was still getting to know things. She snatched it out of my hand in a dramatic way and replied "for those men who make my life difficult". She said it in a way that reminded me of a girl being deprived of her bag of sweets. At that stage, her use of the word 'men' did not rouse any suspicion in me.
Gradually, other paraphernalia were being revealed: tourniquets, condoms, restoration wax left overnight in syringes. Things began to dawn over many, many weeks, until the barriers were no longer there.
And then on one occasion, thinking I was ready, she let me into her domain to tease out my opinion...
I remembered it being early evening, I had expected to finish my shift an hour earlier, but for some reason she kept me there in the office. Giving me some odd jobs that could have easily been left for the next working day. I was starting to get annoyed when she suddenly buzzed me to come down to the prep room.
I walked down quickly, hoping that the task she was preparing me for wasn't going to take long. I appeared at the entrance.
"Well, what do you think?"
She stood beside her choice for the night, with a very slight, mischievous grin - giving me enough time to glance goggle-eyed from her midnight basque to her lower half. Her workplace attire had been stowed away.
Starting with stiletto heels, her black lace stockings covered inch-after-inch of smooth, hairless calves, knees and thighs until her tight suspenders took over - gripping the skull wallpaper pattern that bordered the edge, and which ran from her thighs to her dark, see-through blood-red panties. Her plump, experienced lovenest peering almost ravenously through that ultra-thin divide as it eyed that new bodyscape of freshly-expired manhood neighbouring beside her: all carefully prepped and ready for discovery. A pair of kneepads could be seen - an all-nighter, no doubt.
She took an improvised, postmortem erection to heart nearly as much as the more valued, uncommon natural kind.
My eyes dragged slowly from her thighs and across the smooth, shaven contours and thick, hanging lips of her steaming, thinly-veiled mound; only to rest on the tattoo above - the depiction of a realistic, partly-decomposed male head whose gaping mouth lay just out of reach of the smooth, fleshy knot of her thick, perky clitoris. Branded in bold ink across the forehead of the hideous image was the word MANEATER, its gothic font gave the cautionary impression that the word had been deeply carved into the bone of the unfortunate victim. The silhouette of a burnt serpent coiled around her navel concluded the symbolism on the front of her body.
I wasn't sure whether to laugh or stop myself from choking. I wisely decided the latter and carefully swallowed some drool before landing the tone of response at my objective best:
"You look ... NICE ... like you're not at work!"
As I'd hoped, she concentrated more on my downplayed tone than on my ridiculous response - shifting the emphasis away from the likelihood that her appearance and physique was actually making ME hard, and more on the EFFORT she'd put into sexing herself up for a guy who could no longer appreciate the insatiable woman standing beside him. My eyes looked towards the cadaver with some degree of envy.
Her criteria for selecting lovers was an exclusive one. Looks were not that important. Expiration was the only prerequisite, much to my later dismay when I found her lying on a plastic sheet on the floor of the prep room almost in darkness, her gorgeous naked body glistened whilst writhing in a pool of bones, leathery skin and green slime. A tibia passionately squeezed between her pale buttocks, the man's skull repeatedly kissed by those thick, pouty lips of her pink slit - the remains of a fisherman found many months after he'd disappeared...
Ignoring the smoothly-inflated phallus and discoloured scrotum of her present suitor, I pretended to stumble shyly and think of words that she would approve of. Anything that hinted of what was to come between her and her hapless lover I knew would be met with scorn and a resounding:
"Men! That's all you ever think about!"
.... There is more of this story ...