Dying Wish

by Gregg Dean (Sept 99)

The undertaker was an old man, nearing retirement.
One of the old school he was confused by the changes even in his own form of employment where death was its single consistency.
He found solace in that. That some things would never change and the familiarity brought security.

Eight days before his retirement he was making final adjustments to a recent tragic case.
The woman was still young, at forty she was young by his own standards.
She was tall and elegant, even in death.
Peering into the box where she was to sleep, he found petals strewn across her chest, and reaching in carefully picked them up from the woman.
As he was performing this task, a piece of folded paper fell from the open jacket she was wearing.
He hadn't been too keen on the jacket.
Dresses and nightwear was the order of the day for women.
But the jacket had been a particular request of the deceased.
In fact, it had been a particular request that the deceased's husband clothe her in the jacket, which was decidedly against all protocol and policy. But her wishes had been acceded to and the young man had duly placed the jacket on his lifeless wife.
He reasoned that the paper was probably a mundane item, an unpaid bill, a receipt from the dry cleaners, a tax demand.
It was undignified for anyone to leave the world reminded of its more base aspects.

He unfolded the paper and placing a pair of gold-framed pince-nez over his bulbous nose, he scanned the document.
It was a letter, some ten years old, presumably left in the jacket by accident.
It was a good thing he had found it.

Making himself coffee he sat down and read it.

My dearest Michelle. While I am so far from you I want you to hear my fantasy. I'm not very good at this so bear with me:

I am watching television, back to the settee. Comfortable and naked from a shower.
I'm changing channels frequently. I hear you in the bedroom and you're getting changed into something as we're going out for the evening.

Suddenly I'm aware that you're near me.
You stand in front of me, legs either side of my thighs, your woman inches from my face.
You brush your smoothness against my cheek.
You move your hips and your pussy strokes my chin, my lips. My hands rub the back of your legs, and I stroke your thighs, the soft inner thigh.
I stroke your buttocks and the muscles in your thighs, aware of your youth and vigour and how much I love you;
how vital you are, girl.
You press your femininity to my mouth and you place a foot on the settee so your pussy cleaves and opens for me like a flower.
I run my tongue along your slit, sucking your lips full into my mouth.
They are soft and warm. My tongue travels inside you, explores you.
You moan slightly and the taste and scent of your womanhood make me more of a man.
My hardness is aching for contact and union with you but my tongue has journeyed from your little cavern to your rosebud clitoris.
It's hard and sensitive.
I know it excites you and so excites me. My loins are burning with desire.
Your hips rock with pleasure and your hands are on my head and now my shoulders.
Your nails on my flesh measure your ecstasy, I can feel them and they tell me you love me this much and the pleasure is this great.
Your pussy gyrates against my mouth.
My lips, my tongue, all travel your pink slit. When the moment's right I feel my tongue go deep inside you.
I can suck the juices of your pleasure now pouring from you. You lower your body, crouch in front of me.
Your arms lazily around my shoulders.
You smile at me with your eyes and press your lips against my forehead.
Your lips brush my eyes, my nose, my own lips. Your breasts, full and ripe, brush my chest.
My hands cup them, knead them slowly and you crush my lips with your urgency.
Now I can feel your moist womanhood touching the head of my cock.
I can feel the opening which teases me, delays the time when there's nothing between earth and sky but you and me and this moment.
As your tongue enters my mouth and your wet lips cover my own, you slide yourself sensuously onto my erection.
I feel the tightness of you begin to cover me, engulf me, hide me from the world.
I can take refuge here. You can keep me safe.
You'll take care of me. And my heart beats with love and pleasure for the woman who's giving her body and love.
I'm fully inside you. You take from me with your lips and give back with your beautiful woman.
Your hips are rocking and I'm moving inside you.
Your nipples have become hard under my gentle fingers, but I'm squeezing them with my own urgency, pulling your breasts toward me.
I can't possess you enough to overcome this hunger.
Only if I crushed you into me, if we blended and I took you body and soul inside me could I begin to love you more.
Your arms around me are holding me because you need me, my strength, my resilience, my resource.
I pass it to you. My seed will soon be inside you. I'm going to fill you with a part of me and you desire me more than anything or anyone you've every known. You move more strongly. My hardness inside you rubs and presses and you utter your pleasure.
Your emotion spills, articulated in cries and moans. There's no pretension here.
No hiding from me and there's nothing I can conceal from you, woman.
You sap my love and energy with your breasts, your arms and thighs and your open pussy sliding on my cock.

This moment must end but I don't want it to.
Ecstasy rises in your throat and I tremble not for my own pleasure but for yours. I want you to tell me that you know this.
That you know and can tell me how I can impart more of me for you.
Our mouths part and you throw your head back. Your magnificent breasts swing away from me.
You arch your back and I feel your muscles grip me in waves.
Your movements are from more pleasure than either of us can take and it's the trigger.
I feel my seed rise inside me and I burst into you. I feel you take it and my warm wet salty fluid flows deep into. You take it because that's what you want and what I want.
It leaves me weak.
I've given something of me to you; deep into you and you've accepted.
This timeless exchange, this age old gift becomes complete and you sit forward, hold onto me. We pant and use each other for support.

I'm still firm inside you and you can feel it.
It makes you smile and laugh, it is your joy. It's our secret.
We can share that. We can share it when you're away and when you're home and when we eat and work and fight and when we make up again.
And for my part I will remember it from now until the embers of my life and in my dying moment I will remember it and I hope that even that final thief won't rob me of it.

I hope this turns you on reading it as much as it did me writing it.

I shall be home at the weekend if I can conclude things on the Thursday afternoon.

Your husband, MIke.


The undertaker, removed his glasses and placed them in his pocket.
He shook his head slowly and realising that through some awful error, this vulgar letter had come to be in this young girl's clothing, thought it best that he dealt with the matter himself.
No need to further distress the living, he thought and taking the note, he shredded it between his fingers, allowing the small strips to fall snow-like into the bin.
Switching the light out he left the parlour, leaving the woman to lie alone and sleep with all her memories save one.

Copyright 1999. Gregg Dean geggdean@hotmail.com