A Gracious Corpse, Morning Light (Homage to SusanCoquin's Suicide Club – French Roulette)

“~Wha~”

He moaned.

Both of his still- dreaming eyes caught a searing glow of the morning sun from the half- opened blind shutters. Wincing, his weak frame sank back again, and his slumped cock, momentarily erect, beaded with pearls then snailed back and trailed a thin film of excited slime over his sun- lit fuzz.

“You are up.” Came a demure, familiar voice.

He shifted his head and found her.

She was watching him. With her perfect oval face and delicate cat-like features, she hunched over the stained white sheets, mysterious and exquisitely feminine. And like him, she too was naked. 

“...Am I late?”

“It's Saturday.” She quipped.

The familiarity of many shared orgasms, after having amply made each other come.

“Oh.” he sounded full of relief.

“First time?”

“No, haha.” He responded awkwardly.

“But...close.” 

She beamed back a smile. Though this time, it almost slid off. Instead, her initially pleasant expression became lost as she took on a thoughtful expression.

Just a boy, she coldly mused. Though they were only about 10 years apart, the fact that she is now counted among some of his first memories, his first precious women in remembrance discomforted her. It would certainly be an inconvenience to her depraved, and, until now~ guilt free suicide. 

He might care if he found out, he might end up blaming himself. Still a sentimental type, who wanted to be told all of his precious sperm were special. That bitch of a friend of hers lied, he's still way too fresh.

And suddenly their meeting yesterday in the bar felt off with the creeping guilt of hindsight.

Having once took up a full time teaching job, going after college boys felt like a guilty pleasure, like salivating over forbidden fruits. 

But the first time he came to the bar he noticed her, and she noticed him, and after rounds of exchanged catty expressions, within just a week she began to think about him. ...As more of an ingredient on a list of course, a list of her available choices to fuck her brains out before she cut off her own pretty head with her own pretty guillotine. 

And naturally in the next few weeks, after that said brain was well fucked out of her well fucked skull by the well- crossed out contacts on that list, it was her turn to turn her trick on him.

“Oh he's very good” As her milf friend had recommended, the divorcee's chest and neck reddening in fond remembrance “he'll ride you like a jackhammer.”

And the approval of that woman, winking as she whispered, licking her oiled divorced lips in earshot.

“He has a scorpion tail down there.”

With perfect debauchery, with her folds still burning with the thrust of her previous nights, yesterday it was her turn to finally turn up the heat on him. It was his lucky day. He just didn't know it yet.

So? In that college bar, she made him know that she took a shine to him across several tables. Just a loose white tank top and an unforgiving jeans and 2 lazy flip flops which were discarded on the bar tiles like slippers. Predictably the top failed to cover everything, and the bottom fully traced each swell of her gifted Yoga- honed ass. And what she did with it? Knowing full well it would be her last night, and that ass's last night alive? And in public? Was something that verged on a mating ritual in public, verging on primate and pornography as she showed off her silken wares to him on that tall bar chair.

She could see it too, him boiling and bubbling on his chair watching her watching him, his aroused brows furling in labor, swimming with catchy hookup lines that each tried to best the other. Last night it all felt cute, that he's still young to think that a corny line, in fact any hookup lines even mattered. Instead, she kicked one of her slut slippers to him across the busy room, then playfully pretended it was an accident while giving him a hungry devilish look.

He clambered to her fast on hunched back, her familiar slipper in his hand, it was quaint, something hilarious between a retriever and chivalrous like a Cinderella fairy-tale. To which she must have remarked something to that effect, then they were talking. And they exchanged their names for the first time. And soon? After leaving that bar? Copious salivas.

Not saying, that of course, they haven't left much DNA evidence before they left.  Or enough, itching and clinging, all on her face on the way back.

How could he miss her? He had admired her from afar for so long that she’d seemed like some kind of mythic creature. And that night? It was as if the fireworks was all for him. No bra, her soft orbs slithered playfully under neath that cotton white top, her nipples tracing planetary orbits. And after she remarked on his circumcised beading cock, and how many circumcised cocks she could remember in the weeks leading up, they fucked. Fucked like rabid animals.

She moaned and writhed, burning sweat over his thrusts, the beautiful body and screams begged, squirmed and surrendered: desire into desire. She was melting, melting all over him. Their gestures turned into passionate coils. So he released himself, over her feverish sweaty cheeks and inside her insatiable ass. He sent her glowing, and raving, and coating fire all over his length. The memories of those holes might as well had been an oven.

And all while he fucked her, her yoga legs, like silk antennas, playing with him, steepled his grunting head, raking the bristled grass clumps of his short cropped hair, and other times, joining in pretzel bows that pillowed his arched neck. Until finally, her Yoga honed legs and feet were nothing but dead, draping weights cloaking over his shoulders.

And before both he and she passed out in their shared blinding orgasm,giving up on those sheets, the sight of his ample unseemly sperm coming out of both of her jetting, twitching holes. And the white of those once- familiar eyeballs of hers, so wet, so selfish, rolled up fiercely into the back of her sockets.

His memory cut off.

His drowsy hand stumbled on some crinkled thing and both the sound of the texture snapped him back into the spears of her shutter blind's Saturday morning light.

And without thinking, he turned his attention to his fumbling hand, instead, from under his hand and those tangled sheets, he fished out what looked like a shriveled half torn parchment.

“Wh~” He muffled, but before even thinking of finishing the word he half uttered, his irises widened. 

Upon that sheet of parchment, which looked like something from an antique store, or museum archive struck him. A...a man, dressed in some renaissance or middle age fashion, he did not know, brusquely confident in a spiffy headsman's mask was holding a frail young woman's severed head by the hair over a huge gaping crowd.

“Whooooah.”

Yes, it was something historical, again, which era or country was beyond his thin frame of reference, but very authentically old as he could amply deduce from the weathered yellow of the parchment and its many crinkled and torn edge cuts, but also, ...something else that bellied that piece of paper, and that scene's particular fate, for all over the lower edges of that death- possessed scene, were many spotted hand prints the color of dirty tea.

“Um...” He stuttered, as his two eyes geometrically traced and retraced the shameless, gory scene he was seeing in his hand. Then, he saw her, her eyes. He saw her curious watching eyes over the crinkled, dirties edges of that parchment.

He broke an ice breaking laugh, as if to lighten the situation and to somehow return the watching woman back to their prior familiarity. 

“This is...”

“Is this...?”

“Is this yours?”

She made a accomodating smile with her mouth, it was pleasant and presentable, ...but...

But despite it, her eyes were still watching him, as if they were measuring something in him.

“Yes It is mine”

This time, the smile was full, very sweet in fact, overly sweet, almost with a shade of singing pride.

“Um” He fumbled

This was something weird, not fully horror- movie weird and where he's mentally looking for exits, but weird more like one of those sex comedies where his good lay changed personalities after they had exchanged fluids over night. In all the multitude of dirty fantasies he’d conjured of her, he’d never dared to imagine her being so truly depraved.

“This is some pretty, ...hardcore stuff.”

He didn't know why he went there, or even used the word “hardcore,” but something in the way her smile was held up gave a sense that she was seeing something ...suggestive in that discomforting scene.

“...Perhaps”

Then she took out her hand and reached out to him, he paused, almost unsure if she would message him or harm him, instead, she did neither but used the back of her knuckles and softly raked that torturous scene of female beheading.

“Back then, people had to make due with all kind of snuff.” She deplored, almost piteously, but ultimately appreciatively lost in uncanny nostalgia. 

And she watched him, as the last precise wording of her last word sank in to him. Like some balloons, his eyeballs widened, and he looked to his left and right, and in that moment, totally missing out her gorgeous nakedness on the bed, or the streaks of his curdled seeds gathered across her silken dark hair.

“Sorry.” He groaned, then he gathered his thoughts.

“Do you want this back.”

“I would love it.” She smiled back peaceably 

“It's, it's yours,” and he dropped that parchment before her naked body. “So, Sorry.”

“Um, should I go?”

“If you wish.” Utterly mysterious and feminine.

“Sure, yeah, um, I'll go.”

but the lithe, soft naked woman's attention was already back on the piece of that long- dirtied parchment.

“Last night was perfect, thank you” He heard her compliment, as he bucked his pants and took up his t shirt on the floor.

“Um,” he, he collected his thoughts, but his hand did not stop tightening up his belt,

“Your're welcome”

And before he put on his 2 sneakers on properly he was already at her apartment's fly screen door.

“Do, um” probably his young gentlemanly nerves.

“Do you still need of me, or need anything?”

“Just close the door.” she sang back, a careless adieu, full of peace.

And the fly screen door closed, leaving the soiled woman basking in the virgin morning light.

A smile came to her.

Her ploy had worked, and worked more elegantly than she expected.

She knew he was too young ever since they first talked, even right after she woke before he did this morning. He just might be the type to want to remember her, and then, if he heard of what happened to her, blame himself as if somehow he did something or didn't do something.

But that labia- stained antique parchment she planted did everything she hoped to say in only 3 minutes. She even counted as he rooted there and stuttered.

She hoped that bit of context will pave over the dips in his mind where he might turn it on himself. Since he'd likely be one of those who might find out from local news, or police reports on Facebook posts or Reddit about her. After she finally beheaded her own pretty head that is, or after learning from some one that she had beheaded herself. She hoped that that piece of her secret elicit perversion would be enough for him. The closure of why.

The fault was all hers, she's more than fine having him blaming her if he ever find out, the penalty of which, she already exacted in slicing off her pretty, perverted head.

In the lonely, drowsy chirps of the morning crickets, Laviania inhaled and breathed freely. 

That morning was hers.

The white door and white shutters. The mostly emptied apartment, devoid of most furnitures.

The sunlight of Saturday morning, the gentle sleeping sounds in every house out there, even kennels. All of this, all of that morning, all to herself.

Despite soaking in his smell, she was finally, exquisitely free and without any motes of lingering doubt. And in truth, she was done with him too, having planted a path in his head that allowed him to wade out of her and be done with her forever, he~ like all the others were but rear view sexual objects in her memory.

Launching her naked self, she took out that mostly crossed out list from under her the legs of her bed, and with a measure of pride crossed out his name at the bottom, (after all, most of her furniture had already been sold in the weeks prior) sighing with a relaxed yelp.

Finally, she felt like a woman again, well desired and her holes amply satisfied. Taking out that list, she lit it up over the lone remaining scented candle in that most empty white room. She watched as the page and its names blacken and fold up, a measure of comfort knowing that neither those who would perform forensic exams on her headless corpse this night, nor perform forensic scrutiny over her life would ever have the full lascivious list. 

Most of all, she would hurt no one, for she had no one.

A flick of her manicured fingers checked her bank account had nearly scrapped zero- after weeks of spoiling herself, a last bouquet of calla lilies delivered to the grave of her recently late grandfather, her only family, and some comforting correspondences reported back from the shelter informing her of her cat there. After this, like a thief, pirating the effects of an already dead woman, she took out the sim card from that phone and snapped it.

“You baaad gurl.”

She giggled, utterly for herself with the full measure of her proud vanity, as she lovingly traced her long, Yoga toned leg, with the exquisite sadomasochist foreknowledge that she was going to dispose of them before the day's end. In fact, dispose of all of her well- used, unbridled body. 

And thinking fondly of her death, she resettled beside that old friendly sheet of crinkled parchment on her bed.

With the few hours she still had to herself, her long fingers dove to the plaint wishbone of her sex, and watching that beloved scene, so marinated with her shameless fingerprints, and which prominently shown the aftermath of having sliced off the head of that woman. Like so many times before, she kindled a fond tryst with her body.

After all, she's going to kill herself today. And nothing's going to spoil that.

Conclusion of tale Part 1

Conclusion of tale Part 2