Our eyes met across the hotel bar. I walked over to him.

“I am Danielle and mine’s a Prosecco.”

“Pleased to meet you Danielle.”

He smiled and motioned to the barman, at the same time inviting me to sit on the stool next to him. A flute of prosecco with a strawberry was place in front of me. He picked up his beer and we clinked glasses.

“I’m Stewart” he said. “Tell me are you…?”

“I’ll cut to the chase. Do you want to fuck me?”

He took a sip of his beer and asked

“How much?”

“I’m not an escort” I said, “It will cost you nothing but the drink you’ve just bought me/”

“I’m probably a bit young for you..”

“Fitter and harder, no? Age doesn’t mater to me. My last fuck was with an eighty year old. And he was good, Stewart, good. He has set a high bar. Are you up to the challenge?”

“You bet Danielle.” He leant over and planted a kiss on my lips. He held it here, and I felt his tongue trying to burrow into my mouth. I resisted.

“Save that for later.”

“OK. My room is on the second floor. Shall we go up?”

“It’s such a warm evening, and I bet you like fucking outdoors as much as I do. Besides it’s nearly dark so no one will see us.””

I pressed my thigh against his and stroked his hand. I watched his crotch for the bulge.I stroked his inner thigh and saw his erection pushing against his fly.

“Where are we going?”

He seemed genuinely intrigued.

“A place I know not far from here.”

I put my coat on and took his hand as he tried to gulp down his beer with the other.

“Come on, you don’t need any more beer.”

I led him out of the hotel and down a side street to a main road. We crossed and walked along the outer wall of the town cemetery.   Half way between lamp posts, in a pool of darkness where there was a kind of niche in the wall I pushed him back against it and kissed him. He responded, puling me close and driving his tongue deep into my mouth. He hadn’t shaved that day and I loved the feel of the stubble brushing against my face.

“God I want you!” he gasped, coming up for air and sweeping his hair from over his eyes.

“Where are we going? Are you parked near here?”

I gestured with my head.

“We are going here.”

“The cemetery? You can’t”

“Can’t what? I do what I like darling and don’t let anyone tell me otherwise, particularly men.”

He said nothing.

“Do you want to fuck me or not?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“Come with me then.”

I led him down a side street to where works were taking place and there was a gap n the wall and we could squeeze through, taking care not to stumble over the pile of rubble that had once been part of the wall.

He dusted down his suit as we stood in the blackness of cemetery. I took out my it my phone and turned on the light.  He had the uneasy look of a man who is realising that he has got into something deeper than he anticipated.

It wasn’t far to my husband’s grave, tucked away in  a side alley.

“This is my husband”

I pulled my knickers down and lifted my skirt. I lay on the grave, the gravel biting into my back, and spread my legs. .

“Just fuck me.”

“On your husband’s grave? This is fucking weird.I can’t.”

“just do it. Do it now!”

I had reached the submissive inside him and when he pulled his trousers down I could see that he was rock hard under the boxers. I arched my back as he came down. I was wet and he slid straight in and fucked me hard, working quickly as if conscious of the risk of exposure. He came quickly and, withdrawing, knelt up.

“Now wank and come over my tits.”

He was soon hard again and worked his shaft quickly.  He was still nervous about being caught it seemed. I lay back and he stood over me. I shut my eyes and felt the warm stream landing on me.

“You can go now” I sad.

“When will I see you again? Maybe we can do it in like a proper bed next tme?”

“I don’t want to see you again. I have had you and I will pick someone else up next time I need to be fucked”

“You have used me.”

He spat the words out as he pulled his trousers up and zipped his flies. He winced as he did so.

“But it’s not about you. It really isn’t”

I stood up and reached out to him. He brushed my hand away angrily.

“I don’t want a relationship. I had 22 years with a wonderful man and no one can ever replace him.”

“But why DO you fuck on his grave?”

“For him. He will always be with me, he looks out for me. I want him to know at I am OK, that I am desirable, just as he found me desirable.”

I don’t think he even heard the last words as he walked off, no doubt wondering how he would find his way out of the locked cemetery.

I knelt over my husband’s grave and frigged myself

“I am good darling. I am good. I am getting all the fucks I promised you I would.”

As I came I leant forward and kissed his name on the headstone His name which was my name. For ever. I can’t actually remember the last time we fucked. I guess that once we had the diagnosis we fucked as if every time would be the last, raw, intense sex until he was too weak. And now every time I have sex it is the last time with that man.

I kissed the headstone. I needed to get back. I had to pick a dress for tomorrow. Tomorrow at seven at the same place in the same bar.

A post for Wicked Wednesday. For more wickedness click here 

Wicked Wednesday

The Hangman’s Fracture

The hangman’s fracture is a break of the second vertebra of the spinal column. It is so called as the British method of hanging, the long drop, aimed to kill swiftly and painlessly by breaking the neck at the second vertebra. There are stories of the hangman Albert Pierrepoint feeling the necks of his victims after taking their bodies down to check that he had done his job properly. It was part of the justification of the whole system that death was both quick and painless. This may be a myth.  Analysis of the remains of some 34 hanged criminals showed that the hangman’s fracture was present in only a minority of cases. In some there was no cervical fracture at all which suggests that these victims may have died by strangulation (a risk if the drop is too short) and this would not have been either instantaneous or painless. Yet in every case a doctor had written out a death certificate stating that the cause of death was the hangman’s fracture. This, in turn, suggests that the medical profession was complicit in a rotten and inhumane system.

This digression does link to the theme – bear with me! I heard recently that an elderly kinkster I met once or twice at events in the West Midlands had died during lockdown. Derek (not his Fet name and probably not his real name either) was in his mid 80s and I believe his death was peaceful. And we all hope for that don’t we?  Not Derek actually. For he had a most unusual fetish. He wanted to die by judicial hanging. He was, of course, old enough to have been hanged but presumably had scruples about committing the kind of offences that might have earned him a death sentence. Unsurprisingly he was unable to find anyone to cater for this fetish, so hanging never became more than a fantasy.

I am sure, too, that Derek was not alone in his death fetish. I know of kinksters whose homes are shrines to death, with skulls, human and animal, adorning their rooms. And many of us kinksters are drawn to darkness. We like to inflict, or receive, pain and suffering. I sometimes think that a submissive moving from agony to ecstasy (it is said that a hanged person experiences orgasm as their last sensation) and into the sweet oblivion of subspace is experiencing a kind of surrogate death.  And the return to life has to be managed as carefully as a resurrection, one reason why aftercare is so important.

So it is not surprising that those of us who crave darkness seek out cemeteries. I love to walk in old, abandoned cemeteries, where the headstones have been washed blank by a century or more of weather, and lean drunkenly, the flatbed graves that are opening up, as if there residents might rise again, I long to take a willing submissive, strip him, flog him with nettles I have picked from an overgrown tomb, to make him lean against a stone, to take my whip on his back, my cane on his bottom, to suffer the extremes of pain, and the pleasure that flows from it, there in the last resting place of hundreds of human beings who learned his pain and pleasure resolve their tension in oblivion.

It is in cemeteries that I feel most alive, because I must, we all must, confront death in order to live. to love. It is mortality that gives our kinks sense. The fetish for death is a fetish for life.

Hanged criminals were not buried in cemeteries. They were interred in lime filled coffins in the prison yard, in unmarked graves that denied death as much as they denied life. Derek would never have wanted that, I am sure.

A post for Kink of the Week. Click on the lips to see what other writers have to say on the subject of cemeteries and graveyards

I Want to be Your Skivvy

Claire was her best friend. She shopped with Claire, drank cocktails, caught up over coffee, moaned about boyfriends. Claire was her only friend. And then she wasn’t. She knew this when Claire stopped answering her texts until the time she invited Claire to her birthday and read the reply

“Your birthday? Certainly not!”

She knew although Claire would not tell her. She knew that she had destroyed the only friendship she had.  She remembered Claire’s words. from a couple of years earlier.

“I am hard. I give few fucks for people who are disloyal”

She tried to hate Claire. Tried hard. But she could not. She loved Claire. She was doomed to adore her. She decided she would show Claire how much.  She would serve Claire. She would abase herself before her.

The idea came to her the day she passed a workwear shop in town. She saw the maid dress in the window, went in, took one off the hanger, stroked the cotton, thought of Claire.

“Can I help you Madam?”

“Er no it’s OK”

She left the shop in a hurry feeling herself going red as if everyone could read her thoughts.

The next day she went back and bought the dress.  She hung it on a hanger on the wardrobe door. She laid out her cleaning materials and rubber gloves on the dressing table. She lay on the bed and masturbated, not to Claire, but to the hours of chores, the washing up, the brushing of the toilet, the shoes to polish. She would work until she was exhausted, until her hands hurt, until her skin was calloused, until she collapsed into a heap at Claire’s feet, begging forgiveness, having shown that she cared, that she was truly sorry.

When she woke, it was light. She was still in bras and panties, still wearing her make up.  She couldn’t remember coming though she must have done, She had slept so soundly. She looked around, saw the dress, the enticing  pink marigolds, and remembered.  She stood up, took a glove, put it on, frigged herself, frigged herself hard, rubbing the palm of the glove, with its grip, hard, hard against her clit. She wanted it to hurt, she had to start today suffering. Today was to be her day. Of catharsis.

“I so want to hate you Claire,” she kept saying. “But I can’t. I am doomed to worship you even as you despise me.”

She dressed quickly in the maid dress, dabbed on a powder foundation, grabbed the cleaning tray and left.

Ten minutes later she was at Claire’s door.  The door opened. Before Claire could find words she had bowed her head and curtsied,

“Good morning Ma’am. I want to be your skivvy.”

A post for Wicked Wednesday. Click here for more wickedness