He reached her as he struggles faded and her life fled her body. He had walked into the small apartment's bedroom to find his wife weakly dancing at the end of a nooose. The momentary shock that rooted him to the floor was enough to seal her fate.
Tears blinding him he struggled forward, grasping her by the thighs and despreatly trying to lift her to allow her air--so safe the beautiful woman he loved. It was to no avail. Her feet twitched their last macabre tatoo against his chest, and as a final indignity, her bladder relaxed, allowing urin to run down her trembling legs and the amrs of the lover who held them.
The silence of her passing was marred only by his uncontrolable weaping as he collapsed beneath her dangling corpse and cursed the illness that drove her to this desperate act.
It had seemed for awhile as if her depression was passing, after all, she had returned to work, and had just purchased a new wardrobe, all had seemed well. Now, with her gently swinging above the damp carpet, her letter in his treembling hands, he understood the fiction of it all.
"My dearest, please don't hate me, but I could no longer bear the crushing darkness, nor the chilling numbness the pills left me with. I walk this path so I may be free of the cloud that hangs over us and our marriage--this way you can be free to find someone who is not so sick as I.
"You will find on the bed the cloths I wish to be buried in. I also ask that you clean me up and dress me in something nice before calling emergency services--I don't want to be found having pissed myself."
He crumples the note and looked up. Her head hung down, and though her face was swolen from her struggles, she seemed to be happy and at peace--her hair hung about her like an auburn halo, and the tension that she had carried in her shoulders had drained away with her life, leaving her seemingly relaxed.
Her death hadn't seemed to be cruel to her at least.
He stood on the chair she hung beside, and slowly let her down. As he now looked down at her lying on the floor she reminded him of nothing so much as a marionette with its strings cut.
He picked her up, finding her corpse lighter than expected, and carried her to their bed. The smell of urin and death hung in the air, but he could also smell her perfume and....something else.
As he arranged the corpse on the bed he was overcome again with a wave of numbing grief which drove him to his knees. He gathered her by the shoulder and clung to her, burying his face in her chest. As he sought comfort in the touch of her still warm body, he recognised the scent that had touched him.
Gently, tentativly, he slipped his hand down the waistband of her pants and touched his wife's damp and cooling womanhood. It was slick with something other than piss, and he knew even without withdrawing his hand and smelling it that she had climaxed as she died.
Had she known he was there in her last moments? Had the orgasm washed over her when he grabbed her thigs whil trying to save her?
He brought his finger to his nose, the delicate scent of his wife clinging to it, and he smiled. Had she planned it this way?
"Oh you bad girl." He said sadly, yet aroused, "We're going to have to fuck you as punishement for this."
Their love life had never been one of shy seduction or fleeting touches--they had been lovers with a passion that seemed to bely her bouts with depression. He was sometimes shocked by the ferocity of her lovemaking, but he had never felt anything but desire for the woman he had married.
Now she lay on their bed, the passion drained from her body.
He drank in her figure as he undressed. She was a small woman, standing only as tall as his chin even in heels. She had a waist he often joked could be encircled by a finger and thumb, but her tight and toned ass could hardly be called anemic, nor her grapefuit-sized breasts. She was a woman who despite working out on a treadmill and bike, had never been able to tone her tummy. He liked it that way though.
His erection was almost painfuly full when he approached her corpse, and the touch of his hand to her face nearly caused him to explode. He wanted to make love to her slowly--this would be their last time together after all--but his body seemed to be driven to a frenzy by the sights and smells of the last few minutes.
One of her fantasies floated up from memory, and it comforted him to think she might enjoy some role play first.
"I'm going to fuck you you whore" he whispered in her ear hoarsly as he grabbed her pants around the waistband. "I'm going to fuck you until you scream" he paused a moment in thought, "No, I'm going to fuck you dead."
One swift jerk roughly pulled down her pants and thong, exposing her redish bush and causing the corpse to jiggle. A couple of more tugs and he got her pale legs completely exposed, save for her socks, once white, but now stained yellow.
Grabbing her cold, dead legs by the ankles he threw them over his shoulders, and none too gently positioned himself above her, his cock hovering above her parted lips, dripping pre-cum onto her pubic hair.
"Fuck on this bitch."
He drove his dick deep into her, surprised both by how lubricated her dead pussy was, and how deep he penetrated her. He had always been a tight fit inside her, but in death her vaginal muscles had relaxed enough for him to slip deep inside her. As he continued to pound his cock into her, he could feel it bottoming out against her cervix.
He continued to thrust savagly, causing her head to bang against the headboard, and her breasts to bounce around madly. His grunts came faster and louder nou, and his thrusts were punctuated with a squirt of fluid from between her legs each time he rammed his cock deeper.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck" Harder, and faster, the living and the dead tangled in a macabre jumble of body parts and profanity.
It took less than two dozen stroked before he exploded with the most mind-blowing orgasm of his life.
He collapsed ontop of her, spent. Her legs awkwardly slid down from their perch to plop onto the bed lifelessly.
"Fuck me." he said to the silent room.
To Be Continued...
