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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2011.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
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Divorce Rape
by Ponera (ponera@aol.com)

*** 

A short story about a man and his corpse. (MF, nec)

***

Author Note: This story makes graphic mention of bizarre 
sexual acts, and if that bothers you, go read D.H. 
Lawrence or something. This isn't exactly very sexy, but 
I couldn't think of where else to post it.

***

One day I woke up, and next to me on the bed was a 
corpse. It was the corpse of my ex-lover and it was cold 
and stiff. It was stretched out, turned on its side, 
facing the wall. It weighed down into the mattress, 
creating a well that sucked me towards the body. It was 
naked and so was I, and I did not care; I let my own 
skin crash into the hard, decaying meat of my old love. 

I could smell an odor like that in a butcher shop: an 
acrid smell of mutilation and slow, onset of rot. But 
there was no heat in the corpse to waft this odor aloft, 
and so it was only when my nose came close to the 
graying skin, or was intercepted by one of the room's 
listless shifts of air that I smelled this.

The hair on the corpse was still the same as when she 
had been alive, but then it had been dead even back 
then. I hooked a few strands in my finger and brought 
them to my face. The smell was on them as well. I 
caressed my cheek with that doubly dead hair.

I dreaded turning the body over to look at its face. I 
knew there would be nothing in those eyes that would 
look back at me. Yet turn it over I did, its stiff 
leaden mass resisting me as I shifted it away from its 
natural position. It rocked unsteadily in a supine 
position, like a phone receiver placed upside down on a 
table. Bereft of life, it would no longer conform to its 
environment or my wishes. The head, which had been 
turned into the pillow before, still faced away from me.

I ripped the blankets from the bed and climbed on top of 
it. It was its eyes I had wanted to see, but it was the 
breasts my eyes were drawn to. Useless lumps of 
misshapen blubber, they were disgustingly lacking in 
everything that had enthralled my body when she was 
alive. 

I remembered the mastectomy I had watched as a pre-med; 
the surgery had been swift and precise, the wounds 
stitched up into hermaphroditic scars that had been 
robbed of both contour and nipples. 

Later I had been with the pathologist as he was 
examining the excised tissue; they had been bloated pink 
masses riddled with yellow fat deposits and lymph nodes. 
The pathologist had sliced them into bits like salamis. 
The smell had been a combination of the raw butcher-
block smell of surgery and the sterile, chemical cover-
up of a mortuary. 

That image combined with the one confronting me now, in 
the corpse's vile crumpled sacs. I thought in disgust 
how I had clambered to grope these fatty bags and stuff 
their nipples into my mouth... with life had also fled 
the erotic. What remained was revolting.

The eyes were glaringly open and staring slightly off-
center. I maneuvered my face in front of them and looked 
into them. The pupils were hugely dilated, like a cat's 
at night, and there was only a thin ring of color around 
them. The lenses were clouded-over and dull. The eyes 
were impossibly still. 

Even as my own made their minute adjustments and re-
focuses, those of my ex-lover were locked rigidly into 
their sockets. To move my face was to remove myself from 
their gaze. Behind them was no will to follow me. I was 
as much an object as the creaking frame of the bed 
beneath me was.

Yet I could not tear my face away from their dead stare. 
I crouched down closer and let my lips touch the 
leering, slightly open mouth below me. There was no 
breath, and a stench lay in it like cold used air in a 
dry well. It was a stench of innards, of hemorrhaged 
lungs, of bacterial decomposition. I breathed in sharply 
through my nose, and the moribund air invaded me. A true 
kiss of death, it diffused into my living flesh, 
ravaging me with nausea and arousing me.

The old desire began its cancerous conquest of my body. 
I stretched out over the corpse, feeling its rigidity 
press back like a cobbled stone floor in winter. With 
the weight of two people pressing into it, the mattress 
yielded, forming a stabilizing cup around the curved 
stiff back of the cadaver. My body was not as yielding, 
and I could feel bones grating on bones through my 
muscle and her meat. The stiff flesh sucked at my body's 
heat.

I kissed the mouth. The tongue was dry and unyielding, 
like left over poultry. I wedged my face deep into her 
jaws, and the stiff tongue stimulated me as it had in 
life. I let up on the pressure, and lifted my face away. 
Her eyes were in the same position, looking slightly 
past my right ear.

I licked the lips wetly, and kissed them again. Staring 
into those absorbing eyes I whispered "I love you". It 
had been five years since I had last heard her answer to 
that: "I'm sorry" from the other end of a long-distance 
phone call. As if in punctuation, the line had gone dead 
at that, the last I had talked to her. That reply, to 
me, had been even more vacant than the rigid, insensate 
stiffness I received from her now.

I wasn't ready to give up yet. Clumsily I crawled up to 
straddle her face. My penis, aroused but still pliant, 
hung in front of her eyes. In life those eyes had 
hungered for me, had washed me with a torrent of desire 
that obviated the self-doubt and self-hate I had carried 
with me. Now, in front of their coldness, I felt naked. 
It was the first time I felt like this since that first 
day when she had knelt, smilingly, at my belt, and had 
stripped me bare. 

I was unsure, scared, embarrassed. I splayed my knees 
until my wilting penis touched the lips that I had left 
moistened with my saliva. 

Grasping myself in one hand, I used my cock like a 
lipstick, rubbing it along the perimeter of her frozen 
sneer. I came to life again, stiffening, burning: no 
longer with love, but with a residue of hate and pain.

I rose from my splayed, dog-like crouch to stare into 
her eyes for the third time that morning. This time I 
penetrated past the cataract-lenses, past the black void 
of her pupils, deep into the emptiness where her soul 
had been. Something in me began to gloat. She had been 
destroyed, and all that was left was this shell of worm-
meat. I spat repeatedly into her mouth, and then pried 
her jaws apart. Hard and incensed, I plunged my cock 
into her mouth, feeling her tongue sliding against me 
like a second penis.

Again my desire died. I knew I could leave. I did not 
have to do this. It wasn't too late to keep her memory 
intact, un-violated. I could go on feeding off that 
memory as I had been doing, tapping into it in times of 
weakness and loneliness. 

I did not have to do what I was about to, but I would. 
It would destroy the one foundation of love my crumbling 
self was built on. But it would also destroy the 
dependence. Every morsel of strength I extracted from 
the memory of our dead love came at a price; the memory 
would grow heavier and denser, harder to drag around. 
Yes, it was my foundation. Yes, it was my prison.

I stared through her irises again, this time my gaze as 
cold as hers. I let my cock wilt fully. I held it in my 
hand like a tiny flaccid maggot. She'd never scorned its 
size, or my emaciated body, or the clumsiness of my 
first time with her. Now, bereft of the consciousness 
that had made her beautiful, she did. Her mouth sneered, 
her eyes mocked, and mine did the same back to her. In 
cold, grey death, she was finally more revolting than I.

I let it out into her mouth, feeling rage and scorn and 
lust explode into life as I defiled her with my piss. 
Her mouth was wet and warm with it when I began fucking 
it again. Yet there was no softness or femininity there: 
just the stiffness of her tongue fucking me back, in a 
fetid pool of piss and decaying flesh. I hated myself 
for the ugliness of what I was doing, and I hated her 
for it even more. The rage was fuel for my lust, and I 
was losing control. I held back. Much as I wanted to add 
my come to that mix, it was not yet time.

I withdrew, still stiff, scraped and bleeding slightly 
from her teeth. I kissed her again, gagging on the smell 
and taste of her ulcerating insides and the acridity of 
my piss. I began fucking her belly as I kissed, 
remembering the time she had kissed me with my own cum. 
Her legs were parted slightly and I pushed my cock 
between them, lapping her face as the juices swilled out 
of her mouth.

It hurt. She was hard and dry, and I might as well have 
been fucking sandpaper. I pushed deeper. It was 
excruciating and this inflamed me all the more. "Fuck 
you bitch," I gurgled into her mouth. It wasn't just the 
raw, scraping on my cock that I was feeling. A dam was 
breaking open and all the brackish hurt of 5 years of 
denial flooded out. 

I must have been crying, but I was too crazed to notice. 
Eventually the physical pain drowned out everything but 
the hate, and I fucked her pussy madly, lubricating it 
first with what little piss remained from her mouth, 
then oozing blood and lymph, and finally pre-cum.

I arched my back and stared violently into her eyes. I 
pounded into her corpse, raping her with my cock as she 
raped me with her dead eyes. At the last second, as my 
own orgasm exploded, a hiss of gas escaped her throat.

"She hates me now," I thought, as the last spasms 
receded into darkness.

It is over. I lie in the cooling liquid of my 
masturbation, a wet stain of sweat under me. I have 
burned something out of me, cast off a layer like a 
snake shedding used skin. The hate has receded into 
hiding again, and it is lighter, more diffuse than it 
had been. Tingling over my skin is a peaceful, limpid, 
contentedness. One might even call it love.

END

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Kristen's collection - Directory 69