opened the coffin, and I stared in grinning expectation at a naked dead man.
“That’s a guy,” I said.
Head monk came in close and whispered. “Couldn’t find girl this time. It doesn’t matter. Death is death. It’s all a turn-on. You’re here to get laid, right?”
I eyed the body. A chubby bald white guy, late fifties. The Y cut across his chest indicated he was autopsied. Death was probably a heart attack, based on the size of his gut.
“I’m actually not really feeling it right now,” I said.
“We can flip him over, if that helps.”
“I don’t think it will help.”
“How fresh is it?” someone in the crowd yelled.
“Planted eight days ago,” head monk answered.
The crowd cheered.
“I got sloppy seconds!”
“I got thirds!”
“I want to go last, when he’s so full he’s leaking out of his nose!”
I tried to step away, but the inhumanly muscular monks held me firm.
“I’m really not horny right now,” I insisted. “In fact, I may never be horny again.”
“My friend is shy!” That damn old caretaker guy again. “He doesn’t like to pitch! He prefers catching!”
“No problem. Fetch the bicycle pump!”
Someone brought over a bike pump, complete with needle tip. The head monk fussed around with the poor dead guy’s junk, then pushed the needle into the pee hole at the shriveled tip. I had an anti-erection, my dick actually retreating into my body as I watched.
He began to pump. And, incredibly, the corpse’s johnson responded by filling out in length and width, until it stuck up like a tent pole. The monk kept pumping, and then the scrotum inflated. First apple-sized. Then grapefruit. Then soccer ball. I winced, waiting for the
POP
, but he quit before it got to medicine ball proportions. Which is a good thing, because balls that big would be bad medicine indeed.
“This is wrong on so many levels,” I said.
Someone stuck a tube of KY into my hand, the head monk said, “Have fun,” and then I was tossed onto the corpse, the coffin lid slamming closed above me with devastating finality.
Chapter 8
I lied. There isn’t any sodomy in this chapter. Instead, there was a good minute of mindless screaming panic, followed by a minute of mindless yelling terror, and another two minutes of unmanly begging.
“We’re not opening up until you finish,” head monk spoke through the coffin lid.
“I’m finished.” I hoped I sounded sincere. “It was fantastic. Best dead sex I ever had.”
He wasn’t buying. “The only way you’re getting out of there is by embracing your necrophilia. That’s why you came, isn’t it? That’s why we’re all here. To make our fantasies come true. To taste the forbidden.”
“I tasted it. It’s like rotten meat, and disappointingly unresponsive.”
“We can stay here all night if we have to.”
I collected my thoughts, the sum total of which were
Get me the fuck out of here.
Then I calmed down a little. Then I started screaming again. Then calm. Then more screaming. Then even more screaming.
Finally, I took a deep breath, and really started screaming.
Being hysterical is pretty exhausting, so I took a time-out and tried to rationalize what to do next, other than scream.
Unfortunately, clearing my head made me even more aware of my current situation, and how disgustingly horrible it was. I was trapped in a coffin, lying on top of a naked dead guy with nuts the size of a basketball. A curly-haired basketball with a bratwurst glued onto the top. It pressed against my pelvis in a way that could only be described as awful.
My upper half wasn’t any happier, with my face inches away from a dead man’s. He didn’t really smell like rotting meat. Not exactly. It was more like meat that was about to go bad, but dunked in formaldehyde first. His flesh was waxy, sort of stiff, and cold in a way that only dead people get. I moved my hands up across his nude, hairy chest, fighting the urge to vomit, and then pressed my elbows into
“That’s a guy,” I said.
Head monk came in close and whispered. “Couldn’t find girl this time. It doesn’t matter. Death is death. It’s all a turn-on. You’re here to get laid, right?”
I eyed the body. A chubby bald white guy, late fifties. The Y cut across his chest indicated he was autopsied. Death was probably a heart attack, based on the size of his gut.
“I’m actually not really feeling it right now,” I said.
“We can flip him over, if that helps.”
“I don’t think it will help.”
“How fresh is it?” someone in the crowd yelled.
“Planted eight days ago,” head monk answered.
The crowd cheered.
“I got sloppy seconds!”
“I got thirds!”
“I want to go last, when he’s so full he’s leaking out of his nose!”
I tried to step away, but the inhumanly muscular monks held me firm.
“I’m really not horny right now,” I insisted. “In fact, I may never be horny again.”
“My friend is shy!” That damn old caretaker guy again. “He doesn’t like to pitch! He prefers catching!”
“No problem. Fetch the bicycle pump!”
Someone brought over a bike pump, complete with needle tip. The head monk fussed around with the poor dead guy’s junk, then pushed the needle into the pee hole at the shriveled tip. I had an anti-erection, my dick actually retreating into my body as I watched.
He began to pump. And, incredibly, the corpse’s johnson responded by filling out in length and width, until it stuck up like a tent pole. The monk kept pumping, and then the scrotum inflated. First apple-sized. Then grapefruit. Then soccer ball. I winced, waiting for the
POP
, but he quit before it got to medicine ball proportions. Which is a good thing, because balls that big would be bad medicine indeed.
“This is wrong on so many levels,” I said.
Someone stuck a tube of KY into my hand, the head monk said, “Have fun,” and then I was tossed onto the corpse, the coffin lid slamming closed above me with devastating finality.
Chapter 8
I lied. There isn’t any sodomy in this chapter. Instead, there was a good minute of mindless screaming panic, followed by a minute of mindless yelling terror, and another two minutes of unmanly begging.
“We’re not opening up until you finish,” head monk spoke through the coffin lid.
“I’m finished.” I hoped I sounded sincere. “It was fantastic. Best dead sex I ever had.”
He wasn’t buying. “The only way you’re getting out of there is by embracing your necrophilia. That’s why you came, isn’t it? That’s why we’re all here. To make our fantasies come true. To taste the forbidden.”
“I tasted it. It’s like rotten meat, and disappointingly unresponsive.”
“We can stay here all night if we have to.”
I collected my thoughts, the sum total of which were
Get me the fuck out of here.
Then I calmed down a little. Then I started screaming again. Then calm. Then more screaming. Then even more screaming.
Finally, I took a deep breath, and really started screaming.
Being hysterical is pretty exhausting, so I took a time-out and tried to rationalize what to do next, other than scream.
Unfortunately, clearing my head made me even more aware of my current situation, and how disgustingly horrible it was. I was trapped in a coffin, lying on top of a naked dead guy with nuts the size of a basketball. A curly-haired basketball with a bratwurst glued onto the top. It pressed against my pelvis in a way that could only be described as awful.
My upper half wasn’t any happier, with my face inches away from a dead man’s. He didn’t really smell like rotting meat. Not exactly. It was more like meat that was about to go bad, but dunked in formaldehyde first. His flesh was waxy, sort of stiff, and cold in a way that only dead people get. I moved my hands up across his nude, hairy chest, fighting the urge to vomit, and then pressed my elbows into
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