Sex and Death

No, not necrophilia.  Geez.  Although I admit, given what else I’ve written about, it’s not that far from possible.

This is about a man who has unresolved issues with his brother.

Opinion of me, not in any way a trained mental health professional.

However, I don’t think it’s a big stretch, considering that he talks about his brother’s funeral–nearly 11 years ago now–and wants me to describe having sex with him on top of the casket.

So far, so good.

No, really, that’s easy.  Pretend it’s a table, right?  I can fuck on a table.  I, personally, can fuck on a table, not just my alter ego. THAT’S how easy it is.  And I could probably get the extremely vanilla sex loving boyfriend to go with it, too, which says something else about table sex.  But that’s not where it ends, of course.

Because it’s NOT a table.  It’s a coffin.  A coffin containing the body of his dead brother.

No, I don’t know how he died.  I can’t imagine it was a GOOD death, given that the guy is probably mid-30s, now.  His brother was probably in his 20s when he died.  None of which is relevant, of course.

So we’re talking about wardrobe–sure, I always wear short flippy black skirts to funerals, sans underwear–and then we’re on top of the coffin, fucking.

“What would you say to him?” he groans, clearly getting close.

Well, fuck.  I don’t know.  The wrong thing could totally ruin his groove and I don’t want that.

“Mmmmm,” I murmur, buying some time, “Your brother is fucking me so good right now.”

“Yes, yes, yes!” he groans.

“And you’re never going to get to feel it.”

Apparently, the sibling rivalry thing never really goes away, because that did it for him.


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