La Petite Mort

Sharing sexual fantasies: a Harrison and Sinthia story

Her text came Halloween morning, just two days after we left the hotel.

Harrison all I can think about is your cock. I can’t wait a month. I want you now!

I’m at work, Sinthia. Can’t you wait?

NO!!! I told you, I need you right away! Like now!!!

She sent an address, a spa with private rooms. I was in a meeting with a couple of stuffed shirts.

I excused myself. “My wife is having a medical emergency. Something with her eyes,” I said, silently adding, “She can’t see herself waiting for me.”

Getting out of the meeting was the easy part. Figuring out what kind of work “Harrison” does was tougher.

An hour later, she opened the door to my knock. She looked amazing, wearing a tiny bikini top with a floral sarong tied loosely around her hips. Her face was a mix of shock and confusion.

“I thought you said you were coming straight from work?” She was studying my mud-caked clothes and skin.

“That’s right.”

“Harrison, what is it you do?”

“I’d rather not say. No kiss?”

She lifted the hem of her sarong and spit on it. She used it to wipe some of the mud from my face, and while we kissed, I slid my hand under the sarong to grab her ass.

“Harrison, what am I going to do with you?”

“When you called, you seemed to have some ideas.”

“I have a few right now, but we have to get you into the tub without ruining the carpet.”

And that’s how the day with Sinthia started…

I stand on the front step as you brush caked mud from my hair and clothes. Your hands linger and caress more than needed. You unbutton my shirt and remove it in a cloud of dust. I stand impassively as you kneel, loosening the laces of my muddy work boots and wrestling them off along with my filthy socks. Still on your knees, you unbuckle my belt and pull down my jeans. Torn between wanting me clean and just wanting me, you pause to kiss me through my briefs. More than kiss, you run your tongue slowly along the bulge of my cock and then bite my tip.

“So, Harrison,” you say as you wrap your lips around the bulge of my shaft. “I just have to ask. What exactly do you do?”

“Excavation.”

“Gas lines? Sewer pipes? Sliding big, long, hard things into tight little holes?” You slide my big, hard cock into your tight little mouth.

“Graves. I’m the cemetery exhumist.”

“Mmmmm… That’s interesting. Wait! What? What’s an exhumist?”

That’s as far as my imagination had gone. I’d invented a job for Harrison. I never expected to have to elaborate. But we’re having this conversation while you are on your knees, my cock in your mouth. What I said next may have been driven by testosterone.

“I’m a cemetery specialist. I don’t bury bodies. I only exhume them. I pulled a good one today.”

You stop sucking, confusion clouding your face. “Jesus. I can’t even begin to understand what you just said. You un-bury dead bodies, and today you dug up ‘a good one’? What makes one corpse better than another?”

“She was gorgeous. Embalmed. Perfectly preserved. A body to die for.”

Your head tips to one side like a curious puppy. “This — woman. You were attracted to her?”

“Attracted? You should’ve seen her.” I lace my fingers into your hair. “She had curly, red hair down to her shoulders.”

“Like mine?”

“Just like yours. So pretty, I just had to run my fingers through her hair, imagining her on her knees in front of me.”

Your confusion turns to interest. “So you had a fantasy about this pretty dead woman on her knees?”

“She had the kind of face that instantly made me think about sex.” You rub your cheeks and lips up and down my shaft, listening intently. “And full lips. Lips that begged to be kissed. Lips like a swollen, wet pussy.”

“Did you?”

I nod solemnly and take my cock in my hand to trace your lips with the tip, leaving a web of pre-cum behind.

“And breasts like melons.” I untie your bikini top at your neck and let it drop. I take your naked breasts in my hands. “Breasts like a centerfold. Big and round and firm with nipples like pencil erasers. I just had to, you know.” I squeeze your breasts and twist your nipples, and then I place my cock between them. You squeeze them together while I slide up and down.

You look up in wide-eyed fascination. “Did you really? Just like this?”

“Yes, but not just that. They looked so good, so much like yours, I had to taste them, so I…” I kneel down in front of you, lifting your breast to my mouth, and I suck on your nipple, licking and biting it.

“Oh God, Harrison! You are so bad!” But then, in a whisper, “How did she taste?”

“She tasted…um… cold.”

You exhale one reverent word. “Jeeezus.” And then, “What did you do next?”

You are rapt, hanging on every word, absently running your hand up and down my shaft.

Kneeling in front of you, your naked breasts still in my hands, I turn my head away. “I’m ashamed to tell you.”

“No! Do tell! Please! Do tell! Do tell!”

I look into your wide, excited eyes and say, “As I kissed and fondled her cold breasts, I licked my finger… like this… and slipped it under her skirt… like this… and I pushed it into her pussy… like this…”

You moan as my finger glides between your wet lips.

“… and then I stroked her G-spot while I sucked on her nipple… just like this…”

Your eyes close and your head drops back as a deep sound escapes your throat.

“… and I just kept it up… so lost in my fantasy… touching her… pleasuring her… waiting for her to…”

You catch your breath and then grab my arm, pressing my finger hard into your dripping pussy as you let out an even louder moan with your orgasm.

“… and I swear I heard her… just… like… that. La petite mort.”