Crypt Tryst
My hand tightens around the crumpled, printed craigslist ad as I try to stop my trembling. The mausoleum is dark, dusty, and smells like spider nests. I clear my throat, testing my voice. “Hello? He-hello?" The word echoes weirdly in the tight space, echoing far more than a tiny little building full of dead people should.
A raspy rattling noise draws my attention to my left. A tall shadow – the promised 6’2”, at least – lurks around the side of the mausoleum. I can hear the broad smile in his voice as he speaks. “Why, look at that. You made it. I can already see you aren’t like the others.”
Warning bells in the back of my head.
I walk forward anyway, my hand extended. “You must be – " I hesitate; I only ever got a screen name. "The guy from craigslist,” I finish lamely.
By now he’s close enough to take my hand, and he does, jerking me towards him with such force I can’t resist him. I’m in his arms, wrapped in the dark cloak he’s wearing. He smells like musty hallways and forgotten attics, but underlying all of these reasons to run away is a deep, musky odor that fills my head and makes me lean up for a fierce kiss.
He’s through with kissing almost as soon as we’ve started. He pushes open the mausoleum door and leads me inside. He makes some motion I can’t see and there is light from two of the corners – candles, or fake candles, I can’t tell. It doesn’t matter. In the center of the mausoleum is a wide, flat stone, the lid of a coffin. I bite my lower lip.
“Won’t this be insulting? To the dead?" My voice barely registers above a whisper.
He chuckles, low and sinister, and lifts me bodily onto the slab. My skirt rides up around my legs and he helps it along with both hands. His touch is cool, not unpleasant, but startling. I quickly forget to care as his warm tongue slides up my leg, between my thighs.
I roll my head back and plant my feet flat on the slab, flipping the skirt so it layers over my shirt. He smiles at this – at least I think he smiles – and kneels down before me. As I stare at the cobwebbed ceiling, I wonder if this is how goddesses feel: worshiped, sacrificed, adored.
He makes my clit sing with a tongue more skilled than my college girlfriend’s. Around, around, up and down, finding the places on my skin where no one has bothered to touch and bringing them to life.
Still, the warning bells.
He draws away, his face hidden by his hood, and drags the back of his hand across his face. "Ahhhh. It has been so long since I tasted such a lovely thing. Let us see if you are so inviting inside.”
I don’t see him take his cock out of his robes, but I feel it immediately as he plunges in with no more foreplay. It feels like a fleshy stone, riveted and craggy, and like his tongue it finds the places I have never been touched. As he thrusts harder and harder, his breathing rattling near my ear, my arms wrapped around his broad back, I squirm and I wonder at the way his cock seems to have split into many wriggling things, all seeking my flesh, all threatening to overpower me with a shattering orgasm…
I come, and with a whisper that might be a kiss, the stranger is gone.
I wait, but there’s no answering climax. I sit up, push my skirt down, and realize it’s dark and clammy inside the mausoleum. I clamber off and dart out into the night, shivering and feverish at the same time.
And then it really hits me, the title of the posting:
WANTED: Your Sex Drive – DEAD or ALIVE!
The smell of death fills my nostrils as I flee the graveyard.
Apocalips
The oceans were boiling.
Her seafoam hair tossed by the hot crosswinds, Atom waited at the edge of the cliff. Debris whipped around her naked body as she swayed in time to the silent song of her planet’s destruction. She was the last experiment, the last adaptive life form to be introduced onto the dying world, and her bloodline had failed. Taurus was a miscarriage of an experiment. So they burned the evidence.
Her slender fingers danced across her bare clitoris. She leaned into herself, gasping.
A telltale whisper of bare feet made Atom turn her head slightly to catch the approaching figure in her peripheral. "Rino,“ she said softly, dropping her hand.
Neutrino, his haphazard face obscured by his customary hood, bowed slightly. "So they cast us aside at last,” he said, a sweeping gesture taking in the dying water below them.
“There are worse ways to die than seeing the end of the world.” Atom had always longed to find a neuro-dump of poetics, but she had been denied this one pleasure by her creators and did her best to compensate. "Rino, hold me.“
He came beside her and wrapped her in his corded arms, and she closed her eyes to forget that he was a conglomeration of all of the dead scientists who had built their careers on Taurus.
She slipped her hands beneath his robe to find his growing erection and pressed it to her hairless mound. "One last time,” she said when his dark red eyes met her pale yellow ones.
Something not quite human dug her nails into the bare back of something over-human. Perfect breasts brushed patchwork skin. Fire rained into the sea, turning the water into a fine hot mist that pinkened them both.
Their final coming was together, roaring, howling, as the cliff beneath them surrendered to the beams of flame and collapsed into the sea.
Choking with dry tears and raging, raging, raging at the absolute indifference of nature and the world to the death of love, the death of hope and the death of beauty, I remember sitting on the end of my bed, collecting these pills and capsules together and wondering why, why when I felt I had so much to offer, so much love, such outpourings of love and energy to spend on the world, I was incapable of being offered love, giving it or summoning the energy with which I knew I could transform myself and everything around me.
Stephen Fry (via brothermycroft)
(via marielikestodraw)
The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.
Mark Twain
