The Necrophiliac Plushy Gangbang Story ....
Free online fiction by Alex Draven
You know why I'm here, right? I've got to get rid of them - just can't do this any more! Gerald's still working, bringing in a bit of cash, but you wouldn't believe the amount of meat they get through, and Gail insists it has to be organic, and it's not just the money …
Oh Sorry. How did I get them? Well - what would you do? You hook up with some guy off the furry lists who's willing to go along with your own special collection of kinks so long as you can pander to his, and then he up and dies at you …
Yeah, ok, so maybe you would have called the police and all that jazz, but - really? He was 32 and working nightshifts as a car park attendant and living in a bedsit in Kensal Rise and spending all his time on the net, so who's going to notice if he just sort of - turns into a zombie. It's not like he wasn't just bitching that his work didn't want anything more than a body wearing a uniform. And then there's the whole 'how the hell do I explain the costumes and the choke chain, and the fact that I didn't, in point of fact, notice that he'd carked it until, well, a bit later' angle, so it wasn't purely a matter of self gratification.
Although, yeah, that is a factor. I mean - he died happy, right? And the idea of fucking a real corpse and not just someone willing to take a cold shower and lie real still or a teddy bear with a jar of liver in it is really *really* hot And I spent way too much money on that voodoo dust not too use it when the opportunity landed in my lap, so to speak,, and he was just there.
Not that it worked out quite that way, with the still and stuff, but I didn't know that then. Only that I had this dead convenient, fresh and blame-free corpse in my bed. Well, maybe not entirely blame free, but if he'd said about the heart problems I wouldn't have given him that second viagra, but, you know, principles of disclosure and all, and I didn't exactly shove it down his throat or anything.
Of course, if you listen to him, you'll get a different story, but - just don't listen to him. It's real simple. He's dead, for fucks sake - what does he know? He doesn't really remember being alive - at least that part of the juju powder did it's job - he just thinks he knows who he ought to have used to be, and he won't believe me when I tell him that he was just some out of shape wanna-be wolf with a dead end job, an overactive libido and no social life. Or that the whole death thing's made him smarter.
Yes, smarter. How fucked up is that? It's like, when he was alive, he read the National Enquirer and thought it was a newspaper, and we hooked up maybe four or five times and he's as thick as pig shit, but now he's dead he's got academic pretensions, and a bad case of morality. He's dead! The only reason he's not actually all slimy and gross and, well, dead-dead is cos I did my magic thang, and you'd think maybe he'd be grateful for that? At least thankfull enough to carry on with the sex part, which he was happy enough to be doing in real life, I can tell you. Oh no. Not our Gerald.
No, the first time he comes around and I'm doing my thing with him laid out on the table [ohh, come on - like I knew for sure the powder was going to work that fast? It's not like I'm going to go around committing murders so I can get laid the way I like it, so - take what you're offered, yeah?] and he's all 'the fuck? Get away from me you fucking fuck! Who the fuck are you! What' the fuck's going on?' and flailing around and generally panicking like you wouldn't believe. Which is fair enough. The way he tells it it's like some kind of re-birth thing with lights and tunnels and spiritual awareness of the oneness of the universe, and I guess finding someone rodgering your arse in the middle of it all when you're not expecting it would be a little weird. But that's not excuse for what happened later that night. Not at all.
Look, when he was alive, he was the one trawling the net for people who'd do all that dominance shit and make out like they believed he was a wolf in another life and not just a rather sad fuck in a shabby fur suit with a thing for breath play, right? And it's not like I can claim any huge moral high ground there, to be perfectly honest. It's the nylon fur that does it for me. Or possibly just nylon. Anyway. That's not my point.
My point is that he has absolutely no business turning round and pronouncing that he may be dead, but not even over his own dead body was he going to have carnal relations with a twisted little nutter such as myself. The nerve! He's fucking dead! He's not meant to have an opinion on the matter!
And then we got into this whole thing with me trying to explain that not 12 hours previously he'd been a-ok with the idea, and the mechanics of zombie-making, and the whole intelligence issue, and that's how I ended up with Steve and Gail, you see? I mean. We had this conversation every night for a month and Gerald wouldn't believe me without concrete actual examples, and Steve and Gail are always so loud, with the screaming and panting and the bead stead bashing on the wall, and they gave me a key last summer when they went to Tenerife, so it wasn't hard to pop in once they'd gone to sleep and … That sounds bad.
Although Gerald was pretty hungry by that point, and he did the actual killing part, so I'm pretty sure I can't be blamed it, really, and at least it shut them up.
Well - for a bit.
Only they got a bit peckish too, and there's this warehouse down the end of the estate - all sorts of nasty goings on down there - druggies and stuff - and Gail's always had a bit of a thing about, you know, the environment and social activism and being vegetarian and what have you, and that sort of came through with her personality. So she insisted that that was what they were going to do, and no thank you she wasn't going to let me fuck her, not least because she was still married to Steve seeing as death hadn't parted them terribly well, and men in women's undies had never done a thing for her and didn't seem to be starting to now.
Well - by this point I was ready for a very stiff drink and fuck off to the lot of them, frankly, and I just left them to it. Went to bed. Couldn't even jerk off any more without imaging the body giving me lip, could I? Bastards.
But that's not what actually pushed me to call you, right? It gets worse. Somewhere in one of his making his excuses phases that fucker Gerald came up with the whole 'dead, you know, no blood circulation - it's not you it's me' thing, so you can imagine how that made me feel when I wake up one day and stumble through to the kitchen-diner to watch Trisha for a bit, and there's four of them - four! Four dead people! *four*, meaning they'd nicked my effing juju dust to turn a perfect fucking stranger - with dreadlocks, no less - into a zombie and brought him back to my flat without even asking me! Four of them fucking like bunnies on my sofa! Feet all over the upholstery and Steve wearing my best fur suit and everything. No - no worries about getting a hard on there Gerald.
You see why I can't do this any more, right? I mean, it's just unreasonable, isn't it? Four of them getting it on all over the place, and me back in my bedroom with the Sir Lovesalot bear with the re-enforced double lining and the realistic blinking eyes. It's just too much. You will take them, won't you? Please? I can't take it any more, knowing that they're right the other side of the wall all the time and none of them will touch me. It's driving me nuts.
** end **
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Author's note: Written on a bet.
The Necrophiliac Plushy Gangbang Story .... by Alex Draven is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Non-Commercial-No Derivative Works 2.0 UK: England & Wales License.
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