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!"
Followed swiftly with a get-back-to-work order. So instead, I acted shame-faced, a little embarrassed, uttering monosyllable answers until she silenced me and ordered me out. The door closing almost immediately signified that I should head back to the office, but I waited.
I pressed my ear to the door and tried to listen, half-wondering if she was just putting all this on. Some kind of macabre joke. There was complete silence inside and then a sudden bellowing:
"STEVE, YOU CAN GO HOME NOW!!!"
The sounds of my shoes scuffing on the lino indicated my retreat to the office as I went to collect my gear.
Heading home that night, questions kept sifting through my brain as I tried to figure her out:
Was she just trying some bullshit on me? Was she testing me to see if I'd tell anybody outside work? Did she trust me already, and was just letting me in on her little secret bit by bit? Why get me involved in it at all? One part of me wanted to keep the distance we'd had, another part revealed a hint of fascination with her.
I came in the next morning and was impressed at her methodical discretion. The smell of embalming fluid and antiseptic had almost completely disguised the gung ho scent of bodily fluids that may have escaped from him and her through the night. The face was completely free of fingernail scratches, heavy slapping, and secretions, wax-injected cock now cleaned, softened, tucked downwards and hidden in a cheap suit.
She returned mid-morning: relaxed and quite chatty. She even giggled at some of my crap jokes - the sign of an exceptional good mood. She appeared centred and calm. It was not difficult to see that she gained some genuine pleasure for their final send-off. The attention to her formal attire: detailed, crisp and smooth.
When the grieving clients arrived, her sincere, slightly downcast face, her ability to look with sympathy at the surviving relatives, and especially their partners held some primary connection to their sorrow.
Some of the older women were so touched by her gentle approach, they even wished that their lost family members could have been introduced to her before passing on. With erect nipples straining inside her tight suit, Lucy would smile inwardly whenever this remark was particularly poignant to her ears whilst thinking of her most recent pleasurable experience. A private joke shared between her and the unknowing him.
Silently, soberly, she would watch him being lowered for burial whilst she would replay the more special moments she had with him the night before. If she could, she would vividly recall his physique, his look, the state of her dominating body as it reacted to his.
A sigh would escape her lips once the coffin had reached its place of rest. The sound of damp earth cascading over the lid would send a brief shiver of excitement through her body as she turned to walk slowly away - squirming, walking slowly away, she would make for the nearest cubicle to wipe away a fresh load of warm, sticky cream from the insides of her panties. She always enjoyed closure.
This would always mean a new start for Lucy, another dead man would be already heading her way...
The tragic deaths of the Mackinnon twins were one of the biggest highlights of her career (and sex life) and almost ended everything.
Many of the girls had had a crush on Doug ever since high school, but in death following their fatal car crash, the competition came to an abrupt halt. It was Lucy who exclusively considered them too fit for her to pass them by. If they wanted her to offer them the dignity of a decent burial, they would have to be symbolically buried first - ball-deep inside her own steaming mound.
On the night before, dressed in black lingerie and stockings, she'd prepared an extra large cot with candles and flowers for all three of them. A real gothic send-off.
I was called in to assist in getting Doug on top of her while Chris, Doug's stockier brother, lay beneath. After helping her, Lucy settled down, taking care to avoid the stitches, and then pointed me to the door. I listened to her young throat release some gentle moans as she pressed Chris against her well-lubed butt while reserving Doug for her pussy - a playpen that was just beginning to reveal its soft, sticky interior right next door. I shut the door slowly watching the cot slightly shudder, whilst a guiltless Lucy slowly gently teased her receptive apertures, well on her way to satisfying herself completely with close, brotherly love.
Lucy grew quite attached to the Mackinnon twins and refused to let them go. The relatives had thought they'd been buried, but Lucy kept them in the freezer well within reach, their icy-bluish dicks permanently hard. She thought of having them during quieter periods. Eventually, they were cremated, even the freezer failed to keep them in a fit enough state for Lucy to engage in any kind of play.
Sometimes at the end of a long day, with just me in the office, she would reveal a little more about herself...
"You do realise that I don't hate men, don't you!"
I looked up quickly from the desk, startled by her sudden appearance. I waited for her to continue...
She looked away briefly, almost hurt by my shyness. My mouth moved slightly before she cut in.
"Ever since I was thirteen, and starting to masturbate, I would sneak into the prep room late at night and admire what I saw. Mum and dad would be asleep upstairs, while their little girl explored an entirely different world beneath with a torch. Through seeing, touching, rubbing, I learned all about men that way. Throughout puberty, I deeply felt the sweet, but finite pleasure of my warm, sensual body with the bitter pain of infinite loss always surrounding me.
At fifteen, dad finally relented to my persistent demands and let me help him when he was very busy. He could tell that I was comfortable around death, almost enthusiastic. And it was on one occasion, I unzipped a fresh delivery and my jaw dropped. He was easily twice my age, but I felt my whole body shudder with an uncontrollable, primal urge. He looked beautiful. A young man dead from a tumour. On sighting him, my pussy convulsed from pure lust. My body had never reacted in such a primal way ever before. I immediately began to scheme up a way to have him privately all to myself, for as long as I could. I thought it would be difficult, but I decided to wait instead and play daddy's helpful assistant until darkness fell.
The night came and he was mine...
I waited until midnight, rose out of bed and chose the sweetest lingerie I could find, something that was least soiled from my masturbating.
I wriggled on top of his bodybag and lay there shivering as I touched myself tenderly, thinking lustily of what lay just beneath. I pressed my hand to my sex and squeezed my legs together and rubbed myself in slow delicious circles. Finally, I sat up, with my whole body shaking I parted my thighs and reached for the large, black zipper between them and slowly unzipped him.
My pussy soon felt his face as I felt my vulva caress his nose.
I lifted his limber manhood and let my fingers coat my warm, sticky femgoo over the thick, purple head of his cold dick. I looked into his face and then at my fingers gently squeezing his glans. Desire rose through my stomach and into my throat as I spread the tiny lips of his penis and let a thick glob of saliva drop right onto the fat tip of his dead, unresponsive shaft. My hand worked quickly as I knelt over him and pressed the cold, greasy pole to my waiting vulva.
A mixture of disgust and exultation ran through my body and throat as I felt him enter. Despite these feelings, my sex felt completely relaxed as it slowly fed on my first dead lover's cock. He was my first and within moments of having him inside me, the overwhelming sense of control - coupled with the exquisite sensation of dead manhood, I came hard and felt my juices run out of me and down his shaft. I was left gasping and knew that this was the world in which I truly belonged.