tagErotic HorrorThe Old Coroner 01: Age 19 Red Haired Female

The Old Coroner 01: Age 19 Red Haired Female


Age 19 Red Haired Female -- Diseased


The following story is of intense nature. You may wish to read this preface to put things into perspective. If you do not like spoilers, do not read this preface.

The central theme of the story is projection of love onto people. We have a tendency to fantasize about the subjects of our adoration. We see a coworker. We believe her to be the most tender being ever. Our imagination will make her more desirable then she actually is. Rather, then seeing a real person with problems and short comings, we paint beautiful idealization on her.

The story tells the tale of a man, who meets the ultimate blank canvas of a woman. He quickly goes on to paint his imagination of how wonderful and awesome that woman must be. And, he falls in love with the image that he creates in his mind.

If, as you read the story, you become concerned about the things that the man does to the woman in his blind passion, be ensured that the woman is not real. The installments following in the series explain this at length. The woman is the projection of a demon captured in hell. She is trying to seduce the man to commit acts that will free her out of her prison. Also, in the second installment, the man will pay bitterly for his sins in this first installment.

Have fun reading it. I had a hard time falling asleep after writing it. The story is creepy. That's why it is filed under the erotic horror section.

End of preface.


Gerrit had his long gray hair parted to the side. The thin hair was grown long to cover up all the bald spots. The oily strands were carefully laid across the top of his skull and dangled over his ears down beneath his cheek.

55 years had drawn deep folds vertically along his face. The cheek skin hung loose from the aging connective tissue having tired. The blue eyes had turned cloudy. His gaze was still focused and ready for work.

He stood 6 feet tall in his white medical coat that tried to shape his body into a formal rectangle. The body beneath protested against a harmonic shape. His shoulders were bone thin from a lack of exercise. His hips, belly, and pecs packed pouches of fat. His back was curved forward from bad posture. The mass-produced standard-issue white coat really did a lot to make his body presentable.

His environment was a basement room. Shiny stainless steel tables had raised borders to contain any blood or other bodily fluids. A few cupboards made of press wood and cheap plastic surfaces housed essentials like Nitrile gloves, cleaning sprays, and towels. In the corner were his personal desk with a little portable radio and a chair with thin green upholstery. He was the coroner.

A forty year old woman with very thick hair stood in front of him. Her inept hair stylist didn't seem to know about thinning and layering. The hair stylist seemed to simply cut the ends and let the hair grow like a wild potted plant. Her fingernails were painted with a red paint that cried 60's. There was no sparkle or interesting hue to the color. Yet, the woman always wore an air of superiority around Gerrit. Gerrit's old garb, the old man's shoes and World War II pants beneath the lab coat, made her feel like a modern cosmopolitan woman.

The woman had worked for only 4 years at the morgue and was promoted to Gerrit's supervisor. Gerrit had been at the morgue for thirty years. He had seen people move on into management or leave for the medical profession. Only, Gerrit remained behind in the morgue. Nobody promoted him. Nobody gave him raises. They all thought of Gerrit as the guy in the morgue that nobody needed to care for.

The woman made a sound with her tongue against the roof of the mouth before talking. She always made that sound, when she addressed Gerrit. And, she always let her arms drop, as if he were a hopeless case for understanding any advanced instruction. In a way, she was right, because Gerrit was so used to routine. New bosses always changed the procedures. The years went by like a flurry for Gerrit. And, he could no longer keep track of all the rule changes that fluttered into his office in the form of double spaced memos.

Nobody ever repudiated Gerrit. Gerrit did things Gerrit's way. Nobody expected themselves to be able to change him.

"Gerrit, I got a Jane Doe for you. She needs a basic prep and full paperwork. Earlier today, she died from cranial blood clot. She has no ID or family claiming her body. Otherwise, you have a light night. Full moon was yesterday. So, all the crazies are already processed."

The boss woman swiveled on her feet without saying bye. Her stiff beige office skirt fluttered a bit under her lab coat. The sound of wedge high heels stepping across the hard floor disappeared into the hospital hallway where dim light tubes were turned on energy saving for the night.

Gerrit picked up the clipboard with the medical information. His long thin fingers pushed the first page over. The skin on his fingers had hardened from age. The tall man studied the pages. They had been scantly filled in with cursive hand writing that was extremely tall and narrow.

For a moment, he raised his head to better listen. The barely audible white noise in the building had stopped. The white noise of chairs moving behind closed office doors, phones clicking, and voices chatting. The basement was quiet. However, at night it became super quiet. The lack of quiet white office noise was liberating. Gerrit could breathe easier knowing that nobody would snoop on him or judge him.

The unfit giant of a man lumbered to his office chair. He put his feet on his little table. Ah, the little pleasures of life. He put a plastic box with a sandwich on his lap. Then, he fumbled with the radio. The radio was one of those old boxes that had a single integrated speaker behind a plastic cover. The plastic cover had black holes bored into it to let the sound travel out. The buttons were those giant mechanical cubes that produced loud clicks, when the mechanics trapped the button in the down position.

Beatles and marching music was Gerrit's favorite. The tape was ancient. From the hundreds or thousands of playtimes, the tape had slightly stretched each time until it played the songs at half time. The Beatles' 'let it be' became drawn out like chewing gum. Gerrit's expectation of the song had slightly shifted with the deterioration of the tape. When people played the regular Beatle songs, he'd get raving mad about the young people re-mixing everything. And, people would tell him 'Papa, calm down.'

In the bliss of good music and his feet on the desk, Gerrit unpacked his sandwich with gusto. The sandwich was simply assembled with fresh lettuce and single serving packaged cheese slices from the local grocery store. The low coroner pay required Gerrit to live a life of simple pleasures: a home made sandwich, a stroll in the park on weekends, and a brew in the local pub to celebrate the monthly paycheck.

The late dinner completed, Gerrit swung on his feet. He may not have been sporty. However, his long bones acted like swings and pivots that sometimes made him move dramatically. At the head of the autopsy table with the white blanket, he lifted the blanket at the head to look at the corpse's face.

A young woman lay facing the ceiling. Her face was angelically relaxed and unusually pale. The pale red-brown freckles were beneath the translucent first layer of the skin. The eyes were closed out of consideration. Her lips were slightly perched to make her appear still alive, ready to smirk or deliver a puny comment. Her red hair was in millions of tiny curls. The color was vibrantly fresh. The curls were geometrically precise, as if styled by a Hollywood stylist before her death.

Her facial expression was placid, yet taut by her tender young age. One would expect her to jump up any moment to declare that she had merely played dead for a vampire movie.

She was dead. Gerrit confirmed the lack of her pulse. He lifted her arm an inch. The arm was stiff like a board from rigor mortis. With Nitrile gloves snapped on, he pushed his fingers between her lips to examine the teeth -- small white pearls. The molars had no hint of grinding. The smooth Nitrile fingers squeaked on her teeth, when he lifted her cheeks to the side to get a deeper look.

"Estimated age 19 years old; excellent dental condition," noted Gerrit on the clipboard.

He pulled the white death clothes off her body, crumbled it into a pile, and tossed it onto an empty autopsy table. The Jane Doe wore a white summer dress. The cotton fabric fluffed easily. The lightest breeze would have played with the fabric. Her top was a pink t-shirt that fit snuggly to her skin. The t-shirt cotton was combed to be fine. Little cotton fuzzies on the surface made it appear even softer.

Her shoes were the first to go into the clear plastic bag with a printed label: "#A12590 Jane Doe, personal property." The shoes were high heels with spaghetti leather straps that crisscrossed around her foot. Gerrit fumbled with the tiny buckle for a bit. He was diligent. Dead bodies easily bruise. For a moment, he paused to inspect her toe nails. Happy geometric dashes had been painted on the nails with a preciously thin brush.

"Young, tender toes," thought Gerrit to himself, when he let go of the small, delicate, and smooth toes. The right foot turned out a little more than the left leg. Bodies in the morgue may seem like anonymous corpses. However, look close enough, and you can find the individuality in every body.

The dress was next. Gerrit's large hands slipped between her fanny and the hard stainless steel table to search for a zipper. His hands were so large that he could have grabbed her whole behind with a single hand. There it was, the small little zipper. With the zipper undone, the dress easily slipped down the stiff legs with the bumble bee knees.

Gerrit exposed the panties with little thought or paying attention to them. They had an orange band around the thigh and belly edges. The center fabric was a pale orange with monochromatic flowers painted on them. They fit snuggly around the anatomic curve of the pubic bone.

Workman like, Gerrit continued to pull the t-shirt over her head. He had to massage the stiff arms a bit to get enough range out of the rigor mortis. The t-shirt glid over her torso and arms. The bare boobs with no bra were revealed beneath them. The supine position had the breast tissue flatten like a pile of two thick pancakes. The areola around the nipple was bright pink and clearly raised. The nipples were very pronounced. Not that Gerrit would pay much attention. He was focused on his work.

The panties were pulled down next. The body lay starkly exposed in the large, mostly empty room. She lay there like a piece of meat for exhibition. Her slender body exposed the contours of her bones and muscles even more - a dead body in the low light. The thighs were a big heap of flesh. Her stomach had fallen deeply down by gravity, so that the torso appeared to be raised.

Standard procedure was to use a modesty clothes on the genitalia. Gerrit did no longer bother with modesty clothes. After thirty years of morgue work, he had accepted that corpses were dead. Nobody had ever come back to complain.

He investigated her body. Her muscular definition suggested that she was a tennis player. He could imagine her tripling across the tennis court with cute white sneakers with a pink heart. A little pep in her step would make her short skirt flutter up and down. The underwear, she wore on purpose knowing that a strong serve might flick up the hind side of her skirt. He could see her excitedly chatting with her girl friends next to the net, while holding the tennis balls. They'd be chewing bubble gum and giggle over life's silly side.

Gerrit shook his head to leave the day dream of blissful adolescence. The last item on her body was a black purse that was strapped around her upper arm with an elastic band. He pulled the purse down her arm. The elastic band was quite taut. To fit her size, the purse had only a small compartment.

The first item was a ten pound bill rolled and crumpled together in a rush to get on with life. A few pennies had slipped in between. Gerrit noted the amount exactly on the clipboard. There was a photo of the Jane Do and another woman hugging in an exuberant embrace. They liked each other a lot apparently. Something was written in Swedish on the back of the photo.

Perhaps, the girl was a visitor from Sweden. That's why nobody had claimed her. However without proof of Swedish citizenship, the authorities would not be able to transport her body to Sweden.

A second photo showed the girl laughingly rub her wide smiling face into an adolescent Labrador dog's black fluffy fur. Gerrit paused. The photos told a story of a happy life, fun, and friends. Those things always opened a pang in his stomach. He longed for love, appreciation, and enjoyment. Yet, life hadn't given it to him. Life had been cold and ambivalent to him. Mostly, he had given up. And, in his solemn morgue world and cold shoulder treatment of his colleagues, there was little to remind him.

Yet, seeing the photos, tracing the smiles, observing the emotional reaction in his chest showed him a longing for laughing freely, feeling hugs, and following his curiosity. He looked at the photos for a long time. Down in the morgue, there was nobody to rush him, especially not during the night watch.

He placed the photos into the clear plastic bag. There was also a blue Durex condom with white type on it. Gerrit felt the rubber ring slide around in the package effortlessly because of the lube. "Those kids are funny, so horny, all the time, even girls carry condoms nowadays."

Flashbacks of girls that he had fancied came back. He had gotten as far as a phone conversation or a date. Either were sanctum experiences of his life, yet barely remembered passing experiences for the girls. He even had experienced sex on a couple occasions. Sadness had filled his heart, because the intervals between those romantic moments had thinned out with time.

In his youth, if he could catch a smile from a girl in the street, his month would have been made. Now, it was years than the last lucky smile. This girl had it all, effortlessly. A third photo showed her smiling in the arms of a guy, who hugged her from behind on a boat. The guy had a baseball cap and a blissful horizon stare.

In his head, Gerrit could paint himself being on an ocean trip with the beautiful girl. He could feel how his breathing would grow light. He'd imagine spotting a sea gull for the first time, yet pretending to ignore it like something really familiar. He imagined himself being young again and holding her hands in his sweaty hands. He could feel his heart flutter from the romantic touch. Gerrit blissfully rode into the setting sun until he shook his head to tear himself out of the day dream.

On the other end of the room, Gerrit collected the big sponge, big bottle of soap, and bucket from the cup board. He walked back to Jane Doe to give her the last bath. To survey his cleaning work, he looked up and down her body. She was beautiful. As people around twenty are, her bones hadn't fully grown yet. She was a little smaller. The face was a little smaller figured than a middle aged woman. The red hair was so vibrant to make her seem alive.

The whole body was so slender that all the muscles and shapes gently blended into each other. Her breasts were fully exposed to his starring. She no longer complained about the stare. She no longer had clothes to keep her intimate parts away from his sight. Nobody else was around to complain. He looked at her dazed, following the details of her nipples, tracing the outline of her two pancake high boobs. Her sex was mostly hidden between her legs. Yet, he could see the beginning of the slit and the neatly shaved pubic region.

He was free to watch without impunity. He didn't realize that consciously. It was more a laziness of not caring anymore, when he was alone at night.

His fingers scratched an itch under his nose. He could smell his own body odor for a moment. As a teenager at the girl's age, he loved smelling his own body. His body had this wonderful aroma that made him feel cozy and relaxed. With age, his original smell had been increasingly overshadowed by a smell of sour milk. The sour milk smell had the strong message of death, aging, and disease. He had stopped liking to smell himself. He had started to diligently scrub himself every day with anti-bacterial soap.

And, then he wondered what that young woman on the table would smell like. He was curious. What was the smell of a young person like? The times of being a teenager in small, crowded bedrooms with sweaty teenagers had long gone. He couldn't remember. So, he lifted her arm to expose her arm pit. Red dots from razor burn covered her arm pit.

He leaned forward to smell the arm pit with his nose half an inch close to her lifeless skin. An average person would have said that the armpit was smelly from a morning of running around city. Yet, Gerrit knew that the rancid smell of a human wasn't like the rancid smell of garbage. The human rancid smell had an effect on humans. The armpit smell of the young girl made him feel invigorated. He felt his mind stimulated. He felt the saliva collecting in his mouth.

It's a little meditation. You have to pick out the component of the smell that is repulsive. Then, you have to open yourself to that particular smell frequency. At first, it seems like a strange thing. However, when you keep breathing, your body starts to react in subtle ways. And, all the little subtle reactions build on each other to a kind of high, a kind of arousal.

He had learned about that during autopsies. When smells of sugar or cinnamon would provide clues for the cause of death, everyone would smell like a detective. He had learned to smell a little longer for his own pleasure under disguise of diagnosing.

The purity of her armpit smell absolutely had him try her feet smell. Standing at the foot of the autopsy table, he bowed his tall body down to her little feet. He gently held them in his hands. They were very soft. The cheese smell was unmistakable. What an aroma!

The cheese smell of feet always reminded him of the few occasions that his absent father visited and played with him. The games were always so much fun. And, the room always filled with that cheese-foot aroma. When he was a kid, he connected the smell with his father. Only later, did he learn that sweaty feet develop that smell and it is not considered to be pleasant. However, Gerrit held onto the memories of feeling good, cozy, and loved in the presence of his dad.

He placed the feet down again. His head was red from the exploration. He felt a boner forming in his large pants. The white lab coats offered plenty of camouflage for that kind of thing.

With his senses awakened by the smell tour, he was curious about those nipples. In the district lived mostly old people. Seeing the body of an eighteen year old was novel. Her nipples were so round and bubbly that he was intrigued. He drew the spit out of his mouth and put his lips around those nipples. He had completely broken with protocol. However, his mind was in an exploring space, where he didn't quite think so clearly.

The nipples felt like an excellent chew toy in his mouth. They had a squishy surface that invited pressing down on, yet the core was firm to provide a satisfying resistance. They had a way of slipping around his lips and tongue, because the skin was so smooth.

Standing, he lifted his hand solemnly to his forehead. What had he done? He was alone at night. There was nobody to enforce the rules of society. He had to enforce the rules himself. He had to be strong. Even if nobody would be able to tell what he did, some things were wrong.

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