Twelve
H e died. That’d never happened before. When he seemed to get overheated, I figured, that’s happened before, and when he started gasping, and making a pained expression, I figured that was just what his face looked like when he came. Only he didn’t. He dropped back out of consciousness, and I thought he’d wake again. Only he didn’t.
When did he even stop breathing? I had no idea, but I’d been riding his cock, and then suddenly realised that he wasn’t waking up again. When I checked for breathing, his lungs weren’t moving, and when I checked for a pulse, there wasn’t one.
I’ve never moved so fast, sliding off of his corpse, and dropping to my knees, my stomach purging itself of every last morsel of the day’s food.
I had been fucking a dead man . What the fuck? I threw up again and again. Soon it was just bile, burning its way through my stomach and throat.
I’d barely managed to get my wits about me enough to get out of there. I’d managed to remember my bag, and my phone, and I’d run. Staggered out of there like I was being chased, but with barely enough strength and awareness to even remember when I’d parked. The car was down an alleyway from where I was. I’d had help getting him inside, and then I’d been on my own.
Once I was in the car, I drove. I just got the hell out of there. I was crying so much that I could barely see the road. By the time I’d put some distance between me and the dead man, I pulled over, and removed my seatbelt, curling up in the driver seat, hugging my legs as I cried.
I never meant to kill anyone. This was never about that. It was about taking power from men. It was about using them for sex, like they do to us. It was about getting my pleasure, while they had no say in it.
And now a man was dead. He might have had a family. We never checked that sort of thing. She found me a date, and I’d go play with him for a night. After the biker, we’d reverted back to my old type; smarter, businessman types. The ones who were out cheating on their wives, and looking for a goodtime. They got their good time, and they never spoke of it again.
It had worked for so long. Even with the occasional dose of crabs, or that one case of something a little nastier. I’m sure I’d passed those conditions on to my next victims before I’d realised I was infected. Again, none of that mattered.
A man’s life though, that mattered. I’d killed someone. I’d murdered a man. I clearly didn’t fuck him to death. He’d had some kind of, what is it they call it? A medical event. Call it what it is, dammit… a heart attack maybe? Something else? A stroke? I don’t know. He was alive one minute, and dead the next.
Had it only been a minute? Or had I been fucking a dead man for a while, before I realised he wasn’t waking, or breathing? His cock had remained hard, but hadn’t I dosed him to make sure that it would?
My god, what a mess. I don’t know how I found my way home that night, but I’d dragged myself into my flat, and showered for a good hour or so, before I crawled into bed, and cried myself to sleep. Something I swore would never happen again.