The lights are dimmed, and you, my lover, are alone as you approach the casket. Your heart airstream. You 've not seen me since my demise, and you 're filled with equal constituent apprehension, and desire.

You lift the hardwood lid, and are at first struck by the delicate scent of my perfume, then as your eyes adjust to the poorly lit interior, you are struck by how peaceable and composed I look.

My red fuzz is neatly arrayed about me ; it cascades down the pink satin pillow and beneath my berm. My silk blouse lays slightly parted -- the top button undone, allowing you to see the hole of my cleavage, and nestled within, the crucifix you gave me oh so long ago. You eye strays to the small tents my mammilla ( now stiff in death ) pitch in the calorie-free blue fabric. You fingers itch to concern them, to sneak them, and to caress my tractile breasts.

You lick you lips, passion enflamed, as you continue to wassail in the sight of my corpse. My custody -- now alabaster -- are gently folded on the small excrescence of my tummy. I hold a single rose between stiff and cold finger. You close your eyes and remember a time when those digit -- alive and strong -- caressed you, and ran themselves through your hair.

The pleat of my grey pant are shrewd, as are the creases of the heave stage that hide my thin and shapely calves. Not so obliterate are my feet -- unencumbered by shoes, but clad in the sheer, nude stockings I so loved in biography. My shoes, sensible though they may receive been, are nestled within the folds of satin beside me -- destined to be buried with their owner of a bare three twenty-four hours. The cruel joke, so deftly played upon me by decease, leaves my feet curled and arched as if frozen in the moment of orgasm. I am barefoot in Death, much as I preferred to be in life.

You lick your back talk again, memories of our lovemaking rushing back to you. split well up as you again think of how you will never again palpate the press of my consistency against yours, or know the peach of my lazy smile as we bask in the afterglow of barbarian, fauna fucking.

You bend low, and drink in my perfume again. Your lips hover above mine, your tongue running along the frigidness, crimson stiffness that once pleasured you orally -- and now destined never to do so again. Bolder now, your hand slips into my blouse to caress my left tit. Poking and prodding and squeezing as you kiss my face. Unsatisfied, you move take down, and fumble with the button on my pants.

I wear zilch beneath the pantyhose ; shorn even of my strawberry bush by morticians you realize likely took liberties with me already. Your hand slips underneath the waist of the nylons, and you marvel at the fluency of my heap. No matter the fucking the morticians may birth given me, they at least cleaned me up well.

You fingers play for a instant at my lips -- one on each slope, with your mediate finger rubbing at their slightly parted opening. Gently, as you did when I was once alive, your finger plays across my lip, as if knocking on a door. Where once I might have giggled and pushed you in with my own deal, now I lay mum, yet not unwilling.

You press, and with slight resistance, my corpse allows the finger entrance. A moving ridge of rut washes over you, and you know that your last chance is upon us. Again you drink in the sight of me in my repose.

The tragical beauty of my dead body as it lies in state is a far cry from the almost comedic emplacement my final consequence left me in. There I would lie until found, facedown in a pool of my own urine, vomit and blood. My dishevel hair, and broken stiletto heel the silent witnesses to the fatal spate about the theater that brought me to a crashing stopping point. fear not, dear one, for I was thinking of you before that fateful tumble -- but sadly the wetness between my legs postmortem was made not of my luxuria, but of the pee that leaked from my twat when I died.

Ironic that for all our experimentation with water fun, my great flush goes wasted, as I die alone and Karen Horney. So I would appease prostrate, my luscious ass in the air as if awaiting penetration, cooling and stiffening and waiting for you.

And now here you are, suddenly as lustful as I at the moment of my demise.

You slide your digit in and out of my common cold, dry cunt, allowing it to caress the velveteen fogginess of my inner folds, while your ovolo gently dances about my clit. You push mysterious and harder, the palm of your paw now pressing against my pelvis in a vain attack to arouse me ; to sense me push my hips back against your hand, yet I am still. Any movement of my torso is not of its willing, as you push faster and faster, deeper and deeply inside me.

My corpse is swaying to the rhythm of your finger's breadth. My head now tapping a staccato metre against the casket, as if against the headboard of a bed. Perhaps that too is appropriate, as this casket is the bed I take my last rest in.

Sweat stands out on your body as you pant with your exertions. Then, there is a stab of pain in your arm, and you pause, looking not at my pale typeface, but at where you have been bitten. In your passion you have forgotten the rose clenched in my dead fingers -- but it has not forgotten you. A rivulet of blood runs from the gash torn by the pricker, down your arm, to dribble from your laurel wreath into my awaiting womanhood. Somberly you withdraw, leaving some of your rear end to live within me forever.

You tidy up, hiding the smear of rake that remains on my picket, bald kitty behind the flap of my pants, now buttoned and zippered and once more tastefully arranged.

With a leave kiss, and a final mournful glance, you close the lid of the casket, leaving me to my eternal rest.

But for you, my unholy, my lover, there is no relaxation, but only the agony of unfulfilled animal desire. Tonight I shall haunt you, my beloved. Tonight neither the memory of our honey, nor the not-yet-forgotten belief of my hairless cunt in your mitt will satisfy you.

For this evening you have finger fucked my cold, stagnant physical structure, and tonight, with dreams of me dancing in your foreland, you will jack off yourself to exhaustion.

Let come Le Petite Mort .