Eulogy for an Eco Funeral

On her fortieth birthday getaway he left the passports and tickets on the kitchen counter and they said nothing to each other for four hours on the drive home, screamed at each other spitting blame and excuses and then fucked across the same kitchen counter an hour after midnight.

There wasn't a single thing that couldn't be made better by a ten minute quickie, or an hour finding the heat in all their familiar places. TLDR? Sex was the redeeming feature of the relationship from day one until the day he left.

Back then, Clare was all woman, full honey blonde curls to the waist, thick thighs, green eyes and tits that looked ten years younger than she did.

When they finally got away, he was a miserable companion. She wanted to see the megaliths at Carnac, he hadn't brought any walking shoes and bitched about his muddy brogues the whole time.

She didn't expect cancer. And even once it sank in, she didn't expect to lose the arm along with the breast, only to find six months later that it had spread anyway. And then he left. Said nursing a dying girlfriend was too depressing at his age.

Fifty three tomorrow, but the birthday candles were blown out last Saturday, the lock-in at the Mare's Head had her stumbling home with her best friend in the cold light of dawn. Two hundred well wishes on Facebook and a sappy collection of text messages kept her spirits up the following day but tonight felt too heavy to carry.

Food tasted like shit at the party. Even fucking chocolate tasted like shit. The smell was all off.

Maybe that was why this contraption didn't live up to its reputation, despite the fact it cost more than her first car. The dutiful little plastic cock slid in and pulled out, regular as a sewing machine needle, and angled to hit the right spot. She would never have noticed the smell before. The oily scent of the motor and lube, the chemical stink of vinyl.

Now she kicks the off lever and her stomach churns. Perhaps if she sits up for a minute and takes a few deep breaths? No. It's still too much. Even the rose scented candles smell like a chemical toilet. She swallows the acid in her mouth and heads downstairs to the kitchen to put the kettle on.

Her body isn't what it used to be, but she's not worried about that in her own house. She leaves the dressing gown open, haphazardly filling it's pockets with cigarettes, lighter and phone before taking her coffee outside to the deck.

The halo of solar lights paint the wood and furniture in eerie splotches of rainbow light. It's cooler out here but there's no breeze. That's a shame. She would have loved that comforting touch.

The smell of honeysuckle is different than it should be, but not bad at all. It's strange. The nice healthy vape tastes like poison now, but this hot cancer stick tastes just as bad as it did before chemo fucked her taste buds. She takes a looong drag and holds it before letting it all out with a dry little cough.

Dear god. Is it too much to ask this clapped out machine her soul is riding to give her a little more pleasure before the last long night? She doesn't want to start a relationship and leave a hole in someone else's heart. Dating apps are a meat market, and casual encounters have been more painful than they're worth anyway. She smirks. Humiliation was never her kink. Being pitied is such a fucking turn off.

Masturbation was never her thing, it always leaves her hornier than when she started. Maybe she'll dig out her old swimming nose clip and give the fuck machine another ride if she can find the energy.

Something out of place catches her eye.

There's a stark white object on the midnight lawn. It's almost as bright as the full moon. Perhaps it is a little broken bit of heaven on the ground. There was a time she'd have pulled out her note book and written that down for later. Now she makes a note on the glowing phone screen, like magic it won't get lost or thrown away before she can flesh it out into a proper poem.

When she looks up again there are three objects, like a little crescent of white pebbles. Are they mushrooms?

She stubs out the half cigarette and puts her phone camera into night mode to try and get a picture but it powers down.

Typical.

On closer inspection there is a whole circle of white shapes, all different kinds. She laughs a dirty little laugh. Some are the size of pickles, some as wide as an arm. Some are little spirals, some look like beads on a string. Damn the phone. She's never seen anything like this, and a picture would be great, but the thought of getting the adapter from her bedroom, waiting for it to pull enough charge is just too much. She can't manage so many stairs all at once.

She reaches down to touch one and there's a feminine giggle from right behind her. She spins around to look and loses her balance, falling right into the circle. The phone spins away into the border. She tries to get up but it's awkward. Is the dressing gown cord caught on something?

Her horrified scream is cut short as her mouth fills with a thick white piece of plant meat. It's thickening out, getting heavier, a soft pouch covered in downy flock now rests over her nose, and she can see the clear shape of a beautifully toned arse materialize out of nowhere. A muscular thigh settles on each side of her head. The firm rod swells down her throat and she swallows reflexively. Strong hands take her arm as the cock rides her face, a comforting kiss from a bearded mouth brushes her fingers.

A weight settles over her legs, pinning her down, and that feminine laugh comes again, this time from a mouth a breath away from her hungry pussy.

Clare's cries are distorted into wanton moans as the rod begins to plough in and out of her mouth. Strong hands fondle her chest, stroking between the numbness of her scars, coaxing a response from her once sensitive tits. Below her the grass sinks and moulds to her flesh, the stalks of the obscene little mushrooms control her body, wind all around her legs and splay them wide apart.

Nectar begins to flow over her tongue, down her chin, into her eyes to mingle with the shocked tears blossoming there. Everywhere the fluid touches feels so alive; a thread of lust connects her exposed clitoris with her throat and she thrusts her hips in wild abandon.

There's a gentle smack on her inner thigh as a sultry woman speaks, "Be still now, flower. Let's get a good look at you."

What can Clare do but oblige?

The man slows his pace and makes his thrusts shallower, and Clare rewards him by putting her tongue to work, catching every drop of that divine fluid before it can go to waste. It tastes like salt caramel, like raspberry sauce on ice-cream, like an angel cake came in her mouth. This is the best. Fucking. Wet. Dream. Ever.

"It's so good, isn't it, flower?" the young woman says. "You've spent your whole life fucking us, and now it's our turn, but don't worry. We love you so much darling, we've loved you forever."

"Huh?" Clare looks up at them both as the cock slips out from between her lips.

The man looks down at her with compassion. "Such a pity we didn't take her last cycle," he says. "See how she suffered, since?"

"She wasn't ready." The woman says wistfully. "She's ready now, aren't you, flower?"

"I don't understand." Clare says. Her pussy is throbbing with heat as the woman's cool fingers dip in and out.

"You don't need this place any more my love. It's taught you everything you need to know. Come with us, baby? Stay with us? There's so much we want to show you."

"Am I dying?" The tears come for real now. "But I never got to say goodbye! I haven't figured out the funeral yet, I don't want a free for all with people who never even new me coming for free fucking beer, I'm not ready at all!"

The big man laughs. "You always hated funerals." He lets go her hand and bends down to brush his lips against hers. Clare feels her worries melt away one by one into his heavenly kiss.

Gentle fingers stroke her inner thighs the naughty parade of living fuck toys plunder her cunt.

"Oh yes, fuck me, fuck me just like that, oh! Oh God!" Clare squeals as a narrow shaft shoots up her littlest hole and swells inside her bladder. A corkscrew spirals high up into her arse, and then thrusts in even higher, endlessly filling her until she feels something pushing up the back of her throat. Her eyes snap open in horror. Will this hurt?

"No, no pain, sweet sister." He whispers, brushing away her tears. "All is love now, all is light."

She wants to answer but her voice is already gone, there's just a steady sigh as a vine spirals up out of her mouth with a fat bud on the end. Her eyes glaze over as the petals open. She feels the man lift her hips as he fills her hungry cunt, but there's so much more connecting them than his hot meat. The flower opens as she breathes her soul into it, and she and her lovers sink into the bountiful embrace of the earth.

As the sun rises, tucked away in Clare's garden is a most unique blossom, with dewy petals open wide. Its roots cut through the black earth to the realm of the undying.

Many of her friends are convinced she ended her life somewhere in secret, but those that really know her are sure she couldn't have done so without leaving some words of explanation or apology. The funeral she had half planned becomes a somewhat subdued memorial service and binge drink at which a tree is planted in her name.

There is no consolation Clare can grant them. They will come to know the same truth in time. Some have years to wait, some have lifetimes before they find their way to this place where pain can never touch them. Where every blossom that opens is an expression of boundless eternal love.