Eroticism: Death and Sensuality

WARNING: THIS STORY CONTAINS GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF THE FONDLING OF VISCERA. As in hands-in-the-guts as a way of getting off. If that squicks you, stop now. That said, I wrote this with Paul and Till in mind, but no names are used so you can imagine it as whoever you want.

--Eroticism: Death and Sensuality--

He looks so beautiful like this. So utterly beautiful, floating nude in this glass tank of formaldehyde, a vivisected specimen in an oversized mason jar. And that expression - lips parted, head back slightly, sliced belly pushed forward - he looks like he came as he died. I certainly did.

'If only I had made the cut,' I think as I press my palms to the cool surface of the glass. 'If only I had been the one.'

The low humming of machinery and medical equipment nearly drowns out the wet sloshing of my bare feet over the sterile tile floor. My eyes fall on the narrow metal latter running up the side of the cylindrical glass tank, up to the top and then to the empty tank to the right and down again. Now to the wet footprints leading from there to where I stand. To the right, two more tanks with pale, prostrate, flayed bodies in; to the left the same. And then the two of us.

I can see the little shockwaves going through the tank as I mount the rungs of the latter, rippling the surface of the yellowish fluid. As I stare down through it at his still body, I notice that the reek of formaldehyde is even stronger up here than the laboratory itself, but I've grown to like the odour, that feeling of it burning at the back of my throat.

No movement from the lovely specimen as I slip beneath the surface of the embalming fluid; only the slight lapping at the edges of the glass, the streams of bubbles that make their way lazily back to the surface. Inside, the harsh mechanical noises from the lab seem muted and distant; the fluid is warm, comforting in a way, like being inside the womb. A womb of death.

This close, I can see every detail of the unstitched incision running from the hollow of his collarbone to his navel. The flesh at the edges of the wound is pale pink, and inside, a deep maroon red. His arms are at his sides and spread slightly in an almost sacrificial pose, as if he's offering this newly-carved orifice to me.

My eyes roam across the supine angles of his body, over the small erect nipples, the curve of his belly, only barely garnished with hair, down to the thatch of dark fur between his legs. I place a hand between the smooth thighs, fingers grazing his limp phallus, at the same time pressing my lips to his deliciously inviting opened mouth.

Immediately I can feel life (or something like it) coming back into him; his body coils against mine and the bruised, green-gold eyelids flutter open, dark eyelashes parting to reveal penetrating blue eyes. He smiles at me and I kiss him again, feeling his tongue passing between my lips, my mouth filled with the acrid taste of formaldehyde.

My hand finds the nape of his neck and I draw him into me, our naked bodies pressed close as hands begin to wander. Soft kisses along my throat, a bite placed on the crux of my neck and my shoulder. A feel him tense pleasantly as my fingers lace around his cock, already stiffening, rising to meet my own.

My tongue flicks against his ear; the sharp commixed taste of flesh and embalming fluid. He purrs as his burning palms trace down the small of my back, over my ass, still lower; I can feel the sound transmitted through the fluid more than I can hear it, and for the first time I realize I can feel his heartbeat as well.

Fingers trace lazy lines through the soft dark pubic hair, up the line of fuzz on his belly, until they encounter the slightly raised furrow of the incision. His eyes are on mine now; half-lidded, imploring. I smile and press a finger into the velvet opening.

Every muscle in his lithe body seems to tense at this. My cock gives an impatient jerk as another finger slips in, sliding upwards, spreading apart the warm damp folds of flesh. The slightest whimper escapes him, sounding strangely disconnected through the fluid, and I feel his straining cock pressing hard against my thigh.

I continue the movement of my fingers - higher and higher, as delicate as a surgeon's blade - until I find with my fingertips the apex of his ribcage. I can feel the spot where they've sawed through the bone, the rough, slightly jagged line running up either side of the cracked sternum. His eyes are on mine, almost desperate, pleading. As my left hand takes a firmer grip on his prick, my right presses deep into the wetness of the wound, sinking to the wrist into the cavity beneath his ribs.

Immediately his whole body stiffens alongside mine, his cock throbbing in my hand with such fevered passion than I almost expect him to shoot off right then and there. But he restrains himself, rubbing against me, enjoying the rapture of my hand pressing ever deeper into his viscera.

Deep inside the core of his body, the organs all still so very warm, achingly so; my fingers slip over the sweet, bloody slickness of organs and arteries, fondling now the liver, now a lung, until coming to rest on the pulsating mass of his heart.

He stares up at me with his head tossed back, shuddering, nearly delirious. He mutters something - maybe whispering my name, it's hard to tell with the sound so distorted like this - and then I feel his hands on my own body, fingers finding the incision on my split belly, tracing up the line of the gash, which runs from just above the pubic hair to the ribcage, before plunging inside.

A violent spasm runs through my bones as I feel his nimble fingers caressing my guts, causing me to squeeze even tighter both pulsing organs my fingers encircle. We are both hard as steel now, and his free hand squeezes my cock as his fingers explore my insides. Each sensation of the silken fingertips tracing over the sensitive lining of my entrails sends sharp shocks of pleasure up my spine; and at the same time I can feel his heart beating in irregular, ever-quickening patterns as the discharge grows imminent.

Fingers press deeper, wonderfully deep, until he is buried inside me nearly to the elbow. Some blood leaks from the open wound, and from his as well, rising in spidery tendrils through the formaldehyde and floating halfway between the surface and the glass floor of the tank. We're bound together so closely now that our bellies are almost touching, and every now and then the edges of his wound brush against mine.

He gasps something incoherent against my ear, his wrist tugging at me now more out of reflex, for he seems to have forgotten everything except for my hand buried inside him. My fingers ripple across the mass of throbbing muscle, twining around the thick veins, now squeezing them off. I feel the pressure of the blood trying to force itself through the strictured artery, pounding with desperate pressure, and it is at this moment that he comes.

The discharge is so violent, so powerful that it pulls him back from me, his back arching to such an angle that my hand slips from inside him, trails of blood blossoming up from it and drifting like strings out of the wound. He thrashes against me in the throes of his pleasure, his fingers still gripping almost painfully at my cock and my entrails, and the feeling is so exquisite that I'm unable to restrain myself any longer, loosing my fuck as violently as he, our streams of sticky semen squirting onto one another and mixing with the formaldehyde and the traces of blood.

When the voluptuous spasms of lust finally subside in both of us, I notice him staring at me with half-lidded eyes, giving me that smirky smile of his. He takes my hand, still covered with the sticky remains of dark blood, presses it to his lips and begins to lick it clean. He sighs pleasurably as I begin to do the same for him, lapping up the salty-sweet taste. His tongue delves between my index and middle fingers, curls around, flicks against my palm, and once again I'm taken aback at how unequivocally beautiful he is. It is a beauty different from the frivolous, aesthetic prettiness of life; this was something that the living could not duplicate, this was the beauty of death. And there is nothing else so resplendent as that.