tagErotic HorrorDead Things Need Love Too

Dead Things Need Love Too

byDarkestkiss©

The young man, brow furrowed and glasses perched low, bent over the table. His scalpel gleamed in the low light as he sliced through flesh and sinew. A thick tube was twisted with some force into the opening he created, allowing a dark viscous fluid to ooze toward the drain. Mr. Walker didn't move, but that was expected. Corpses tend not to do that.

He turned away to jot down some notes.

"Would you terribly mind not doing that again?"

That posh English voice in the otherwise quiet room made the mortician nearly wet himself. He whipped around, a fist to his chest, to see his most recent arrival sit up and yank the tubing from his side.

"Why was there a sheet over my head?"

The young man stumbled back before the desk met his backside. "You're dead..."

"Well, clearly not, good man. Could you tell me where I am?"

"C-Carrison Funeral Home."

"Funeral home?" The corpse swing his legs over the side of the table. "Last I remember, I was having a few drinks and playing a bit of pool."

The mortician dropped the paperwork twice before he managed to read it. "It says that you went outside for some air- when you didn't come back in, one of your friends went to look for you. You were found in the alley, um, your throat torn open. The cops think that it was an animal attack. You were pronounced, uh, dead and eventually sent here."

"I don't appear to be dead now."

"No..." The young man, intensely curious despite his fear, checked the dead guy's vitals. "But you don't have a pulse and your heart isn't beating."

"Parts of me seem to be working just fine." Mr. Walker looked at his lap, where a certain part of his anatomy was indeed very much alive. "Perhaps you could fetch my trousers and save us both some embarrassment."

"Of course...Your friends brought your suit by this morning..." The mortician darted up the stairs and headed immediately for the telephone. His fingers stumbled three times before he could punch in the right numbers.

"Mr. Carrison?! Mr. Carrison?!"

"What is it, Victor?" The sleepy, gruff tone reminded him that it was close to midnight.

"Mr. Walker isn't dead!"

"Who?"

"Kingsley Walker! The dead guy?! Torn up throat?" The young man wiped off his glasses and stuck them back on his face. "Any of this ringing a bell?"

"He's not dead? Boy, you need to get some sleep- take a night off or something. Get a woman-"

Used to the funeral director's lectures, he cut his employer off. "I'm not joking. Mr. Walker sat up in the middle of my prep and started talking. He's not breathing but somehow he's moving around."

"Jesus Christ! We're going to be sued." The man finally figured out that Victor was serious and acted fast. "Okay, umm, give him whatever he wants. Make him comfortable until I can get there. Fuck!"

A muffled conversation was heard before his boss spoke again. "I had to let the wife know I was heading out. Give me a half hour. Christ!"

Victor tossed down the phone and went for the package that had been dropped off for his customer's wake. He folded the neat suit over his arm and picked up the gleaming dress shoes. He's not really dead, maybe his pulse is just really slow. Yeah, I bet that's it. I'm being stupid- dead guys can't talk.

He kept the mantra in his head as he returned to the basement. The dead man was still there, but he appeared preoccupied.

"Mr. Walker!"

Dick in hand, the Brit apologized as he spied his company. "I have a need for a good wank. Feels like it's been ages."

"I, umm, brought some clothes." The mortician kept his eyes averted as he dropped the suit on the table. "Could you stop that?"

"No." His hand massaged his shaft with quick strokes. "I need to... need to come."

Victor remembered his boss' orders to keep the man happy. "Okay, well, I'll just leave you alone then."

The grunting corpse stared at him and licked his lips. "You don't have to leave. " He gripped the young man's arm. "In fact, I insist that you stay."

Victor's head was pushed down before he could scream.

###

The funeral director swore as he skidded into his parking space. He fumbled as he unlocked the front door, planning his apologies in his head. How could this poor fuck still be alive? Goddamn quacks sending me a live one. Hopefully, Walker sues them instead.

Cheered by the thought, he made his way to the embalming room. "What on god's green earth is going on?!"

His mortician had their not-so-dead guest bent over the examination table, clearly filling some unresolved needs. Both men turned their faces toward him and he could see the unnatural pallor to their skin and the glaze of lust in their eyes.

"You said to give Mr. Walker anything he wanted, Mr, Carrison." Victor panted through his task.

"Yeah, a fucking bath or something to eat. Not screwing him in the basement."

He backed up when the men separated and came toward him. Arms outstretched and cocks lifted toward their bellies, they grabbed for him.

"You look a bit stiff." Victor grinned. "Let us give you a hand."

Vomit rose in his throat at the bit of skin that had slipped on the dead guy's chest. The terrified man held his stomach and raced up the steps. He threw himself into his car, locking the doors with a slam of his fist. His fingers shook as he unearthed his phone.

"Deadwood Police Department."

"Hey, listen, this is going to sound crazy but I just caught my assistant having sex with a corpse. I mean the corpse isn't really dead anymore- he was moving around just fine. But now my assistant and the dead guy are trying to have sex with me..."

"Sir? Have you had any intoxicants this evening?"

"I wish, lady. I'm telling you they were fucking and they were both really pale and moving around like two puppets with their strings cut or something." The funeral director saw the two men, dressed now, walking toward his car. "They're coming. I gotta get the hell out of here."

"Sir, attempting to file a false police report is a serious offense. I'm sure that you pranksters find is amusing to call in claims of zombies or needing little blue pills just because of our town name, but I assure you that we don't find it funny. Have a nice night, sir."

He swore viciously as the line disconnected in his ear. Bitch. He jammed in keys into the ignition and brought the car to life. The wheels spun into reverse as a fist knock onto his half-open window. He sped off and flipped a finger out as he passed.

"Did you see that? Terribly rude." Mr. Walker slung an arm over his companion's shoulders. "Come, Victor, I'm feeling a bit randy."

"I know just the place."

###

Maybe the cop's right. Maybe I dreaming, maybe I'm drunk. I did have a few drinks with dinner- hell, and a few more after. Okay, my assistant is probably just gay, the dead guy wasn't really dead... He was moving around, all right. But his skin... The funeral director screeched to a halt in his driveway and stumbled into his house.

"John?"

"It's alright." He stubbed his toes against the bed while he stripped to his boxers. "Shit!"

"What did Victor want?"

"Nothing. Power went out on the fridge unit. I kicked it running again."

"That damn thing."

"S'alright." He curled against her back and cupped a breast, forcing himself no to think about dead men fucking. "I'll call an electrician in the morning."

###

"Mr. Walker?"

"Victor, once you have blown a man, etiquette suggests using his first name."

"Kingsley," Panting ,the mortician pushed up his wire frame glasses. "What are we? Zombies? Ghouls? Or just the undead?"

"I'm sure that I have no earthly idea. If you figure that out, do feel free to share."

"Well, you didn't try to eat me...jesus... or drink my blood..."

"No, but I did have the devil of a craving...oh, right there... to give you some fluid of my own."

"Ughhh...I could tell..." Victor jerked, gripping the hair of the man who was sucking him as if he was going to win an award. He shuddered when a pointed tongue slithered over the slit in his cock head and spurted in several waves down his companion's throat. The blonde head stayed in his lap until Victor nudged him away. "I think that I'm in the mood for a redhead this time."

The whore collected a twenty from the pile on the table and gave the men a little wink when he left. While he waited for the next toy, Victor watched his new lover plow the brunette on the bed as if trying to give him a new hole. The well-built man was on hands and knees, as eager participant in his own ravaging. Probably used to their customers' odd conversations, neither of their escorts had looked at them strange.

The vocal bottom reared up and clamped a hand behind his customer's neck as his orgasm burst over him and several spurts of milky fluid soaked the sheets. His fingers dug into Kingsley's cool skin and a wash of blood darkened his throat. The door opened and the redhead that Victor had asked for came in. He took one look at the gory scene and actually smirked as he leaned against the door frame.

"Whatever you boys are into is going to cost extra."

###

John stumbled to his feet and headed to the bathroom.

As he stood there, a stream of yellow hitting the toilet bowl, he glanced out the window. His neighbor stood in the yard below, filling her bird feeders. He noticed that her hair was a bit wild and the red seemed duller than usual. She turned to go back into the house, walking like a pole had been jammed up her ass.

Holy fuck, she looks as pale a corpse. He shook his dick and tucked it away. He eased open the window to get a better look.

"Rita! Rita!" He hissed.

"What, John?" His wife entered the bathroom, her hair a snarled mess.

"Come look at this. I told that freakin' cop I wasn't drunk." He moved aside and waved a hand. "Take a look next door."

The woman was still out there, standing in the sunshine, while an equally ghoulish man lurched toward her from the house. With a complete disregard for their semi-public location, he pushed her against the fence, then dropped to his knees and stuck his head under her robe.

"What's wrong with them?" Rita kneeled on the toilet lid to get a closer look.

John was equally fascinated. "I don't know but last night I caught Victor fucking that dead Brit who wasn't really dead. They both looked kinda grey like that-- all glassy eyed and walking funny--scared the hell out of me."

The redhead somehow managed the look of pleasant disinterest that one has while conversing with strangers despite the fact that her companion was clearly enjoying his task. He clawed at her bathrobe until the tie loosened and revealed a body that was stunning even dead. Groaning, the man clutched her waist and pulled her to the grass.

It took Rita several moments to respond. "I thought you said there it was a power outage."

John lost all ability to track the conversation. He imagined that his neighbor was devastating without all the life bled from her and the sight of her spread open in the sunshine sent his groin to full mast in seconds. Their sounds drifted through the window- little grunts and whimpers that made him feel both disturbed and needy. "Little problem here, Rita."

His wife was too invested in their voyeurism to look over. "What is it, John?"

He moved behind her, allowing his erection to press against the thick swell of her buttocks. Proving that her freak flag as just as big as his, Rita braced herself on the window sill and bent forward. John wasted no time in slipping two fingers between her thighs to test her readiness. "Mmmm, that's my Randy Rita- nice and wet. Undead sex

getting you hot?"

"Oh, like your dick isn't aching." She kept her arms braced, but turned to grin at me. "Do you want to do something really freaky?"

John slid into his wife, gritting his teeth as her snug sheath encased him. "Name it."

Her breasts began to rock as he set up a smooth, deep pace. Her voice lowered an octave, she pointed toward the neighbors who were fucking as slow as one would imagine two creatures with future rigor mortis would. "Let's race."

"That's my girl..." He gripped her hips and speared her so deep that a sob of pleasure escaped her throat. "We can talk to the police about them later."

"Ohhhh yessss....later."

###

"I should be getting home."

"I don't know if that's a good idea, Kingsley. Your friends think you're dead, remember?"

"I don't feel dead--although I don't know what dead is supposed to feel like." He tilted his head so that Victor to finish stitching his neck. "What do you suggest I do then?"

"You can stay here with me until we figure something out." The young man stuck a bandage over his work and pulled off his gloves. "We can get some of your things tomorrow."

"Alright, if you're sure."

"I'm sure that you need a distraction." Victor washed his hands then grabbed his companion. He urged his company toward the bedroom and yanked at his trousers. His hand cupped the mottled flesh and he licked his lips.

"I see that rigor mortis has set in."

###

"Deadwood Police Department, please hold." The operator hit another of the flashing red buttons. "Deadwood Police Department, please...." The caller jabbered in her ear. "No, ma'am, all of our deputies are out on calls. If you give me your address I can have someone sent to you as soon as possible."

She scribbled down the address and hung up.

"Charlie, we got a live one at 477 Dumont St."

"On it." The guy next to her stretched his stiff muscles. His milky eyes scanned the address again before he lumbered off. "Hopefully she's not an old bag this time."

"Stop by Carla's on your way back and see if any of the girls need some assistance." She dug some cash out of the employee kitty. "Save me a blonde if you can-Never mind, I see one coming this way."

Her partner lurched toward the back as a couple came through the front door. She pressed a hidden button and the doors silently locked them in.

"Can I help you?"

"You sure can, sweetheart. Something weird is going on. Last night-" The funeral director stopped when he saw the cop's mottled skin and the bloodless tear on her cheek. "You're one of them!"

He grabbed his wife and uselessly tugged at the door.

"Sir, I don't know what you mean."

"Christ, how did they get to you so fast?!" He yanked his wife behind him as the cop came around the desk. "Do all you people do is fuck each other?!"

"Well, sir, this is a small town- there's not much else to do."

Rita jerked at his sleeve. "John, are you seriously trying to talk to the dead chick?! Let's get out of here!"

He grabbed a chair and aimed it at the glass doors. It took him several swings to even make a hole in the thick glass.

"Sir, I'm afraid I'm going to have to take you in for vandalism to police property."

He swung again and the door finally shattered.

"John! John!"

He turned to see his wife being dragged into the back. He leaped for the closing door but it clicked before he could reach it. He yelled for her and his fists banged uselessly on the bulletproof glass.

###

Victor pulled up to Kingsley's apartment. A young woman was outside frantically shoving bags into an packed SUV while the two little girls beside her stared at the undead mail man. The guy ignored them and continued to stuff letters into the appropriate slots.

Both men got out of the car and entered the lobby.

"Any mail for 2B?"

The old man jumped and cracked his thumb against the open drawer. The digit snapped audibly. "Damn." The thumb dangled as he sifted through his bag. "Nothing- sorry."

"Thanks anyway."

They climbed the stairs and Kingsley let him into the apartment. "It seems like our 'condition' is spreading."

"This town had always been full of jocks, sluts, and cheaters. All there is to do is drink and fuck." Victor sat on the sofa. "Nothing like a bunch of bored, horny people to spread a plague."

Kingsley paused from gathering his clothes. "The live ones seem to be leaving town. Perhaps it would be safe for me to stay here."

"I thought that you liked sleeping in my bed."

"I wouldn't want to be an imposition."

Victor kissed the mass of stitches across his companion's neck. "Come on, lover boy, let's get going. I'm dead on my feet."

"You're terrible."

###

John drove through town like a madman. Red lights and pedestrians of the undead variety were of no concern. A perverse sense of satisfaction filled him as he took out his neighbors who were coupling spasmodically against a mailbox. The woman rolled off his hood, leaving a smear of dark blood across the glass.

"Watch it, maniac!"

The funeral director looked in his rear view mirror to see the pasty young man help his girlfriend to her feet. She picked up her nearby arm and shook it at the retreating car.

"Asshole!"

John laughed and stuck his middle finger out of the window. He pulled into his driveway, knocking over garbage cans and sending debris flying. He left the door open and headed for his bedroom.

He pulled the gun from his nightstand and caught sight of his wife's favorite guilty pleasure. He tucked the book into his front pocket and absently stroked it as he thought about what to do. Okay, these things are taking over. Dead people mowing their lawns and walking their fucking Lhasa Apsos like it's any other day. His fists clenched. They got Rita. We need an army, hell, the FBI or something.

A loud clatter came from downstairs. John grabbed his gun and peeked into the hallway. The pair that he had hit were standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking straight up at him. The girl's tits were still hanging out of her dress.

He pointed the weapon at them, his hand shook with his fear. "What do you want?! Get the hell outta my house!"

The young woman tapped the banister with her severed limb. "You ran me and Bobby down and drove away- what do you think we want?"

"If you want apology, I have one for you freaks!" He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

Click.

Click, click.

No bullets.

He opened his eyes and caught sight of the two grinning nightmares. The dead guy, Bobby he assumed, rubbed his groin crudely.

"Bad luck for you, my friend."

Knowing that the only way out was down the stairs, John chucked the gun and rushed the intruders. He barreled into them and stumbled for safety. A hand caught his ankle and he dropped inches past the doorway. He kicked out, frantically trying to free himself, but the grip remained firm.

His fingers scratched scars into the wooden porch as he was dragged back inside.

"Where you going, man? We got a bone to pick with you."

The door slammed shut on his screams.

###

The old woman next door clucked her tongue at the antics of her neighbor. Humming as groans and choked pleas traveled across the yard, she scratched her cat behind his ear.

"Kids these days, eh Jonesy?" She chatted with her dozing pet as she glued a patch of hanging skin back to her arm. "Making noise at all hours- you would think they were trying to wake the dead."

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