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The Flood / I Love Being a Morgue Assistant
« on: November 08, 2014, 10:45:05 PM »
There's NSFW shit in here. Taboo NSFW shit.
This is the entire story, if you've read the first half, scroll about halfway down and begin with "There was an immediate issue"
I work a regular 6-9 shift at the hospital morgue as an autopsy assistant. Like most assistants, I'm usually left with menial grunt work like preparing and cleaning dissection tools after autopsies or holding down the fort while everyone else gets breakfast at the end of a shift, and that means watching the bodies. I always get the short end of the stick, so to speak.
Sometimes it feels good to give a bit of yours. It started out as a regular day, the paramedics brought in a body case and I had to intercept them with the carrying table (which is fun as hell to wheel around like a go-cart when no one's looking) and load the corpse.
You notice a few things when you work with dead people long enough, besides the smell, like sexing bodies by weight. Unless an amorphous blob comes weighing one metric tubgirl, you can usually identify sex. From experience I can say I resent America for making fat people. Whenever I'm handling a dead woman, though, I always find myself "double checking."
As the paramedics handed her over, I nearly slipped and groped her breasts to prevent myself from "falling" for the eighth time that week. Those paramedics must think I'm the clumsiest assistant alive by now if they haven't caught on.
Immediately, something felt different about this body. You see, the first thing that strikes you about dead breast is usually the firmness, because rigor mortis is one of the biggest cock-blocks there is, but their malleability was largely intact, and firm enough to just barely perceive coldness... Or arousal in the living. Her icy nipples rubbed up against my warm hands and I felt a twitch down under. I didn't say anything but my customary,
"Sorry guys, jitters and whatnot"
And shuffled with her along to the table and escorted her inside.
It's a bit of a walk to the autopsy room, so I usually have plenty of time to become acquainted with the bodies. I usually enjoy talking to them on their way to eternal incarceration, but today I was tired from a late night argument with my mother about our curious shortage of breakfast cereal. I instead resolved myself to wheeling and daydreaming.
I could still feel the soft flesh of her breasts on my clammy palms, those nipples like little pink rosebuds after a fall frost. I had phantom tit syndrome (which I'm fairly sure is a medical condition of mine now), and I only digressed further. I started imagining what those cold melons would feel like pushed against my meat-straw, the firmness of cold skin and softness of flesh smothering my prick with a wave of pleasure comparable to skinny-dipping in the ocean with a hard-on. As usual, I started salivating on the body bag and snapped out of my blissful stupor, watching the viscous drops trace voluptuous, silhouetted curves on her body. I don't care what anyone else says, body bags are definitely a turn-on. But I digress... I grew curious about her face, already being intimately associated with her in mind. I leaned over the bag and undressed its zipper.
She was breathtaking. Her expression held a gorgeous vacancy, as if innocence left suddenly in wake of seductive, devilish maturity. It was clearly written in the open purse of her lips, the quizzical and unmoving slope of her gentle eyebrows, the rigidity and definition of her delicate cheekbones. Her emptiness aroused me. She was perfect. My Johnson pricked up immediately and I nearly collapsed onto her right then and there when one of my co-workers suddenly interrupted,
"Are you alright, Jerry?"
I nearly dove out of my skin. In trying to quickly compose myself I actually tripped (marble floors are some of the biggest assholes I know) and fell directly on my stiffy. As I lay cursing my misfortune ever being born with a penis my co-worker had the nerve to utter,
"Oh, sorry Jerry, I didn't mean to sneak up on you..."
We're not on speaking terms currently.
When I finally recovered, both the body and my co-worker, heartless harpy she is, were in the autopsy room. It must have been my aching dick or my irritation at my co-worker, because I felt the insatiable urge to fuck something. Or someone. I contemplated beating out my furious if not slightly pained stiffy in one of the dismal hospital bathrooms, but I waited long enough for this. Come hell or high water, I was going to fuck a cadaver.
There was an immediate issue. I'm into some pretty weird stuff by most standards, but fucking surgical holes hasn't yet become a thing and I'll be damned if I'm first to dig that shit. I needed to get inside before they made her into a Freddy Krueger experiment. To compensate for my customary delays with the bodies my co-workers usually get straight to work, so in the name of necrophilia I opened that door.
Jegus, it was awkward. I happened to waltz in precisely when they were about make an incision. That was the normal part. Of course, when the autopsy commences the cadaver is stripped, so I beheld her luscious figure in full. The restorative capabilities of the penis astound me to this day. The surge of blood engorged my prick instantaneously, expression slackening in blissful rapture. Where her face held vacancy, her body retained fullness. Firm and full as ripened fruit and sweet on the eyes she lay white on the operating table. The whole scene struck me as innocent, like an even blanket of fresh fallen snow. I wanted to desecrate it immediately.
All eyes were now trained on me, including the surgeon handling the scalpel (boner-kill personified... Or perscalpified). My brain, located approximately in my dick, hiccuped. What the hell was I supposed to say as some morgue assistant with a hard-on in front of his co-workers? I think I babbled like Bill Clinton, nearly elucidating my internal monologue, "I do not want sexual relations with that corpse." My coworker, the same harpy who rendered me an immobile heap of human misery cheerily added,
"Oh, again, sorry about sneaking up on you Jerry!"
Contemplating how long she'd last in an airlock I replied in my most genial fashion,
"Oh... I'm fine. Just slippery- I mean just the floor was slippery"
She gave me her signature smirk and head tilt, something you'd see in an anime. It made me sick to my stomach. No one that awful deserves anime quirks without answering to your level 250 in Maplestory. No one.
And like the sadistic sociopath she was, she had the gall to press another point, one brining myself back to the present moment in its infinite comforts,
"Did you need something, Jerry?"
"Yeah, I actually need that body,"
I actually blurted out the dumbest fucking thing possible, unbefuckinglievable. Any guy can tell you it's impossible to handle your mental wheels when your dick drives, but this was a new low for me... And perhaps men everywhere. With no time to think something coherent I blurted out another thoughtless statement,
"The family wants to see the body before the autopsy..."
It worked like a pagan sacrifice on Samhain. They divulged the body to me without asking any further questions, only eagerly nodding assent and vacating the premises (as it was around their breakfast break anyway), leaving me alone with the body again. As my heartless co-worker left the room, last of all I might mention, she looked from me to the body and I could've sworn she fucking winked, slowly closing the squeaky door. The noise excited my Johnson in its hyper-alert state. It was time for operation: sleeping beauty.
I was slightly disappointed I didn't get to undress her myself, but I wasn't redressing her in that bag however hot it was. No, I was much too impatient for this, already suffering through dick-crushing defeat and harpy humiliation. Just thinking about it forced an extra ounce of blood to my meat straw. Which reminded me...
My curiosity about what cadaver breast felt like on living flesh hadn't abated, only lay dormant like Pompeii before fully incarcerating its victims in hot substances. The metaphor called to me, and I involuntarily whispered,
"Here comes Pimpeii, Aurora"
as I inched closer to her exposed body. In the sterile lamplight her fair skin glowed softly, diffusive and enchanting. She really was just like sleeping beauty. I caressed her face, cool skin meeting my touch eagerly. She was ready as I.
I laboriously mounted the table, straddling her between my warm thighs. The scooting proved awkward as she gave me literally no leeway, so I moved to the table's shuddering protest. In essence, I managed with the grace of a horny walrus. Looming above her, I unsheathed my instrument, throbbing and bobbing with hot anticipation.
I squeezed her cool breasts together with hot hands and charged my Rohirim horse cock into her Helms Deep, post battle. It was better than skinny dipping in the ocean with a hard-on. The ocean, I can firmly attest, lacks firmness and is much too salty. I played with her nipples as I rode her fleshy stallions into the titillating heat of titty fucking. Those hard rose bud nipples protruded pristine, electrifying my engorged prick like two tiny cattle prods. My cavalier gladly accompanied them in rhythmic pounding. The table squeaked softly. Perspiration accumulating from the joint taint of our moist union lubricated my cock. Slippery floors my ass, this was where the real shit resided.
I grasped their full fleshy glory, squeezed them tighter, and delved into their wondrous contents vigorously. I moaned softly in rapture. Her fleshy pleasure pillows wrapped me in cool, delicious tightness. Snow-hued skin glistened effervescently, her jiggling and wet chest bubbles resultant of our furious lovemaking. The experience was nigh spiritual. I'd found my true calling, and it was nestled in between cadaver breasts. If there is a heaven, there are dead people there, and you can fuck them.
As you might imagine, it was too good. I sensed a disturbance in my member, a familiar force elating me and bringing my movements to a crescendo amidst furious squeaking on the rocking table. In my orgasmic throes I threw back my head and exclaimed
"OH YEEEAH!" Bursting through her wall of flesh comprising newfound god. Jackson Pollock ain't got shit on me; she transcended art with my glazing and went straight to pure, unambiguous emotion. Bad touch would be proud, she was smothered and covered like waffle-house-hash-browns.
Panting, I lay on her glorious breasts. She was completely intoxicating, her stoicism listening to my dirty whisperings, the smoothness of her river-rock skin, and her unflinching, innocent perseverance gazing back into my eyes brimming with filthy eagerness. Moments or hours later my member still twinged for more caught between our clammy skin, my scrotum slightly dipping in her cold slit. I slid a hand down her elegant, milky thighs and fondled her nether regions. Within I found out two things, both equally awesome; the first being greater wetness than I expected (which only momentarily made me consider the nature of her demise), the second being the silkiness of her insides.
By nature I'm a greedy bastard, and upon feeling her internal loveliness I (which is to say Jerry junior) desired nothing more than to Lara Croft the hell out of it. I slid off her body and stood at the foot of our table, drawing her limp body forward until I could feel her silken orifice enticing Jerry junior's eager head to peek inside. Momentary masochism gripped me, and I slid the pulsating length of my shaft outside her meat purse. I nearly came again from contact, feeling every micrometer of our interacting parts rubbing by the providence of friction. Frictional force is the best, hands down. I leaned over her on the table, panting like a heat-stricken mutt, sliding myself between her cold lips. Grabbing her bell-shaped hips and undulating, I pushed myself gently inside. The pleasure wave spurted instantly, caking her insides with my warmth. I came too far to stop then. My mind took over what my penis thought it finished. My thrusts were deeper, taking it slow while my balls recuperated, then I turned her over, heart-shaped ass embellished with the inviting, tight, silken vagina. She jiggled with each consecutive slapping thrust. I shot again, member straining to produce excess man-milk. Prudently, I endeavored to squeeze out another load.
For our finale I laid her out stomach down, mounted the table again, and went full missionary. She was my Sea Biscuit, and we won gold. From our vigorous exercises she was markedly warm. I disregarded the saltiness of my penis, the dizziness from ejaculating inside her, the aching in my balls from squeezing out so much product in one day, and let my drill pierce the heavens, gripping her ass cheeks like reins. The jolt tore through my body, escaping my lips in one emphatic,
"UH!"
My substance burst as hot and deep as I could thrust.
I sent her out... with a bang. And by this I mean I had no idea what to do with the body. My co-workers would come back and examine her again, undoubtedly finding trace signs of "tampering." I was damn sure at least one of them was suspicious of me, and annoyingly coy about it in her cutesy shitfaced sort of way. Yet this experience, even in all of its thirty minute brevity, transformed me. I couldn't possibly give up god after fiddling its corpse. It might have been my brain regaining the reins on my thoughts, but I had an epiphany. I told my co-workers the family wanted to see the body again before the autopsy, but what if they changed their minds about the morgue she was held in? Surely I could bullshit that in my sleep by this point. In essence, I could... take her home with me. We had an old, unused ice shed in the backyard. I could keep her as my little ice queen. My little secret. Jerry junior nodded in assent at the conception of this brilliant idea.
So after cleaning up a bit of my mess from the floor and stowing the body away in my car I took her home. My mother keeps wondering why I've taken a keen interest in the shed as of late, but I have a padlock installed now... Just in case. As long as I play it safe, no one should ever know I'm getting laid nightly by a dead chick. This doesn't mean I've drawn the line here though, that would be like having your cake without eating it too (which is one of the stupidest phrases to pimple the ass of the English language). Oh no, once I had the experience from one cadaver, I took liberties with bodies like a harem protagonist at a beach party.
It seems like I can't catch a break between wheeling these tables like go-carts and dealing out double dick dosages to dead damsels. I've never been so intimate with anything before, and like I say after a good night inside my ice queen,
"I've never felt this alive."
This is the entire story, if you've read the first half, scroll about halfway down and begin with "There was an immediate issue"
I work a regular 6-9 shift at the hospital morgue as an autopsy assistant. Like most assistants, I'm usually left with menial grunt work like preparing and cleaning dissection tools after autopsies or holding down the fort while everyone else gets breakfast at the end of a shift, and that means watching the bodies. I always get the short end of the stick, so to speak.
Sometimes it feels good to give a bit of yours. It started out as a regular day, the paramedics brought in a body case and I had to intercept them with the carrying table (which is fun as hell to wheel around like a go-cart when no one's looking) and load the corpse.
You notice a few things when you work with dead people long enough, besides the smell, like sexing bodies by weight. Unless an amorphous blob comes weighing one metric tubgirl, you can usually identify sex. From experience I can say I resent America for making fat people. Whenever I'm handling a dead woman, though, I always find myself "double checking."
As the paramedics handed her over, I nearly slipped and groped her breasts to prevent myself from "falling" for the eighth time that week. Those paramedics must think I'm the clumsiest assistant alive by now if they haven't caught on.
Immediately, something felt different about this body. You see, the first thing that strikes you about dead breast is usually the firmness, because rigor mortis is one of the biggest cock-blocks there is, but their malleability was largely intact, and firm enough to just barely perceive coldness... Or arousal in the living. Her icy nipples rubbed up against my warm hands and I felt a twitch down under. I didn't say anything but my customary,
"Sorry guys, jitters and whatnot"
And shuffled with her along to the table and escorted her inside.
It's a bit of a walk to the autopsy room, so I usually have plenty of time to become acquainted with the bodies. I usually enjoy talking to them on their way to eternal incarceration, but today I was tired from a late night argument with my mother about our curious shortage of breakfast cereal. I instead resolved myself to wheeling and daydreaming.
I could still feel the soft flesh of her breasts on my clammy palms, those nipples like little pink rosebuds after a fall frost. I had phantom tit syndrome (which I'm fairly sure is a medical condition of mine now), and I only digressed further. I started imagining what those cold melons would feel like pushed against my meat-straw, the firmness of cold skin and softness of flesh smothering my prick with a wave of pleasure comparable to skinny-dipping in the ocean with a hard-on. As usual, I started salivating on the body bag and snapped out of my blissful stupor, watching the viscous drops trace voluptuous, silhouetted curves on her body. I don't care what anyone else says, body bags are definitely a turn-on. But I digress... I grew curious about her face, already being intimately associated with her in mind. I leaned over the bag and undressed its zipper.
She was breathtaking. Her expression held a gorgeous vacancy, as if innocence left suddenly in wake of seductive, devilish maturity. It was clearly written in the open purse of her lips, the quizzical and unmoving slope of her gentle eyebrows, the rigidity and definition of her delicate cheekbones. Her emptiness aroused me. She was perfect. My Johnson pricked up immediately and I nearly collapsed onto her right then and there when one of my co-workers suddenly interrupted,
"Are you alright, Jerry?"
I nearly dove out of my skin. In trying to quickly compose myself I actually tripped (marble floors are some of the biggest assholes I know) and fell directly on my stiffy. As I lay cursing my misfortune ever being born with a penis my co-worker had the nerve to utter,
"Oh, sorry Jerry, I didn't mean to sneak up on you..."
We're not on speaking terms currently.
When I finally recovered, both the body and my co-worker, heartless harpy she is, were in the autopsy room. It must have been my aching dick or my irritation at my co-worker, because I felt the insatiable urge to fuck something. Or someone. I contemplated beating out my furious if not slightly pained stiffy in one of the dismal hospital bathrooms, but I waited long enough for this. Come hell or high water, I was going to fuck a cadaver.
There was an immediate issue. I'm into some pretty weird stuff by most standards, but fucking surgical holes hasn't yet become a thing and I'll be damned if I'm first to dig that shit. I needed to get inside before they made her into a Freddy Krueger experiment. To compensate for my customary delays with the bodies my co-workers usually get straight to work, so in the name of necrophilia I opened that door.
Jegus, it was awkward. I happened to waltz in precisely when they were about make an incision. That was the normal part. Of course, when the autopsy commences the cadaver is stripped, so I beheld her luscious figure in full. The restorative capabilities of the penis astound me to this day. The surge of blood engorged my prick instantaneously, expression slackening in blissful rapture. Where her face held vacancy, her body retained fullness. Firm and full as ripened fruit and sweet on the eyes she lay white on the operating table. The whole scene struck me as innocent, like an even blanket of fresh fallen snow. I wanted to desecrate it immediately.
All eyes were now trained on me, including the surgeon handling the scalpel (boner-kill personified... Or perscalpified). My brain, located approximately in my dick, hiccuped. What the hell was I supposed to say as some morgue assistant with a hard-on in front of his co-workers? I think I babbled like Bill Clinton, nearly elucidating my internal monologue, "I do not want sexual relations with that corpse." My coworker, the same harpy who rendered me an immobile heap of human misery cheerily added,
"Oh, again, sorry about sneaking up on you Jerry!"
Contemplating how long she'd last in an airlock I replied in my most genial fashion,
"Oh... I'm fine. Just slippery- I mean just the floor was slippery"
She gave me her signature smirk and head tilt, something you'd see in an anime. It made me sick to my stomach. No one that awful deserves anime quirks without answering to your level 250 in Maplestory. No one.
And like the sadistic sociopath she was, she had the gall to press another point, one brining myself back to the present moment in its infinite comforts,
"Did you need something, Jerry?"
"Yeah, I actually need that body,"
I actually blurted out the dumbest fucking thing possible, unbefuckinglievable. Any guy can tell you it's impossible to handle your mental wheels when your dick drives, but this was a new low for me... And perhaps men everywhere. With no time to think something coherent I blurted out another thoughtless statement,
"The family wants to see the body before the autopsy..."
It worked like a pagan sacrifice on Samhain. They divulged the body to me without asking any further questions, only eagerly nodding assent and vacating the premises (as it was around their breakfast break anyway), leaving me alone with the body again. As my heartless co-worker left the room, last of all I might mention, she looked from me to the body and I could've sworn she fucking winked, slowly closing the squeaky door. The noise excited my Johnson in its hyper-alert state. It was time for operation: sleeping beauty.
I was slightly disappointed I didn't get to undress her myself, but I wasn't redressing her in that bag however hot it was. No, I was much too impatient for this, already suffering through dick-crushing defeat and harpy humiliation. Just thinking about it forced an extra ounce of blood to my meat straw. Which reminded me...
My curiosity about what cadaver breast felt like on living flesh hadn't abated, only lay dormant like Pompeii before fully incarcerating its victims in hot substances. The metaphor called to me, and I involuntarily whispered,
"Here comes Pimpeii, Aurora"
as I inched closer to her exposed body. In the sterile lamplight her fair skin glowed softly, diffusive and enchanting. She really was just like sleeping beauty. I caressed her face, cool skin meeting my touch eagerly. She was ready as I.
I laboriously mounted the table, straddling her between my warm thighs. The scooting proved awkward as she gave me literally no leeway, so I moved to the table's shuddering protest. In essence, I managed with the grace of a horny walrus. Looming above her, I unsheathed my instrument, throbbing and bobbing with hot anticipation.
I squeezed her cool breasts together with hot hands and charged my Rohirim horse cock into her Helms Deep, post battle. It was better than skinny dipping in the ocean with a hard-on. The ocean, I can firmly attest, lacks firmness and is much too salty. I played with her nipples as I rode her fleshy stallions into the titillating heat of titty fucking. Those hard rose bud nipples protruded pristine, electrifying my engorged prick like two tiny cattle prods. My cavalier gladly accompanied them in rhythmic pounding. The table squeaked softly. Perspiration accumulating from the joint taint of our moist union lubricated my cock. Slippery floors my ass, this was where the real shit resided.
I grasped their full fleshy glory, squeezed them tighter, and delved into their wondrous contents vigorously. I moaned softly in rapture. Her fleshy pleasure pillows wrapped me in cool, delicious tightness. Snow-hued skin glistened effervescently, her jiggling and wet chest bubbles resultant of our furious lovemaking. The experience was nigh spiritual. I'd found my true calling, and it was nestled in between cadaver breasts. If there is a heaven, there are dead people there, and you can fuck them.
As you might imagine, it was too good. I sensed a disturbance in my member, a familiar force elating me and bringing my movements to a crescendo amidst furious squeaking on the rocking table. In my orgasmic throes I threw back my head and exclaimed
"OH YEEEAH!" Bursting through her wall of flesh comprising newfound god. Jackson Pollock ain't got shit on me; she transcended art with my glazing and went straight to pure, unambiguous emotion. Bad touch would be proud, she was smothered and covered like waffle-house-hash-browns.
Panting, I lay on her glorious breasts. She was completely intoxicating, her stoicism listening to my dirty whisperings, the smoothness of her river-rock skin, and her unflinching, innocent perseverance gazing back into my eyes brimming with filthy eagerness. Moments or hours later my member still twinged for more caught between our clammy skin, my scrotum slightly dipping in her cold slit. I slid a hand down her elegant, milky thighs and fondled her nether regions. Within I found out two things, both equally awesome; the first being greater wetness than I expected (which only momentarily made me consider the nature of her demise), the second being the silkiness of her insides.
By nature I'm a greedy bastard, and upon feeling her internal loveliness I (which is to say Jerry junior) desired nothing more than to Lara Croft the hell out of it. I slid off her body and stood at the foot of our table, drawing her limp body forward until I could feel her silken orifice enticing Jerry junior's eager head to peek inside. Momentary masochism gripped me, and I slid the pulsating length of my shaft outside her meat purse. I nearly came again from contact, feeling every micrometer of our interacting parts rubbing by the providence of friction. Frictional force is the best, hands down. I leaned over her on the table, panting like a heat-stricken mutt, sliding myself between her cold lips. Grabbing her bell-shaped hips and undulating, I pushed myself gently inside. The pleasure wave spurted instantly, caking her insides with my warmth. I came too far to stop then. My mind took over what my penis thought it finished. My thrusts were deeper, taking it slow while my balls recuperated, then I turned her over, heart-shaped ass embellished with the inviting, tight, silken vagina. She jiggled with each consecutive slapping thrust. I shot again, member straining to produce excess man-milk. Prudently, I endeavored to squeeze out another load.
For our finale I laid her out stomach down, mounted the table again, and went full missionary. She was my Sea Biscuit, and we won gold. From our vigorous exercises she was markedly warm. I disregarded the saltiness of my penis, the dizziness from ejaculating inside her, the aching in my balls from squeezing out so much product in one day, and let my drill pierce the heavens, gripping her ass cheeks like reins. The jolt tore through my body, escaping my lips in one emphatic,
"UH!"
My substance burst as hot and deep as I could thrust.
I sent her out... with a bang. And by this I mean I had no idea what to do with the body. My co-workers would come back and examine her again, undoubtedly finding trace signs of "tampering." I was damn sure at least one of them was suspicious of me, and annoyingly coy about it in her cutesy shitfaced sort of way. Yet this experience, even in all of its thirty minute brevity, transformed me. I couldn't possibly give up god after fiddling its corpse. It might have been my brain regaining the reins on my thoughts, but I had an epiphany. I told my co-workers the family wanted to see the body again before the autopsy, but what if they changed their minds about the morgue she was held in? Surely I could bullshit that in my sleep by this point. In essence, I could... take her home with me. We had an old, unused ice shed in the backyard. I could keep her as my little ice queen. My little secret. Jerry junior nodded in assent at the conception of this brilliant idea.
So after cleaning up a bit of my mess from the floor and stowing the body away in my car I took her home. My mother keeps wondering why I've taken a keen interest in the shed as of late, but I have a padlock installed now... Just in case. As long as I play it safe, no one should ever know I'm getting laid nightly by a dead chick. This doesn't mean I've drawn the line here though, that would be like having your cake without eating it too (which is one of the stupidest phrases to pimple the ass of the English language). Oh no, once I had the experience from one cadaver, I took liberties with bodies like a harem protagonist at a beach party.
It seems like I can't catch a break between wheeling these tables like go-carts and dealing out double dick dosages to dead damsels. I've never been so intimate with anything before, and like I say after a good night inside my ice queen,
"I've never felt this alive."