"The Governor's Wife"
Another Saturday Night
Warning: This story makes location to various groups and religions as tongue in cheek (being a pagan, a goth, and an dancer). Some viewers may be offended. If you weigh up you may drop into the category of easily taking things personally, I recommend you find something else to scan.
Once upon a schedule there was a childish Gothic dude named Ernest. Sure, he scan Poppy Z. Brite and Anne Rice and his highest interests were autopsies and series killers, but Ernest was a entrenched sensualist. He found EVERYTHING a physical experience; eating, showering, drinking, conversation, sleeping, shitting, wanking and even dressing. Everything he did, he got off on. He tried girls, they thought he was too weird. He tried boys, they thought he was too perplexing. He tried Goths but found them shallow and uninteresting. Goths could do the stride, say the speech and look the part, but to him it was like learning your time tables in fundamental school, all song and no substance. He found artists to be sensualists, as he was, but most of them were too clear and sunny for him. Brite and Anne Rice and serial killers and autopsies, in the end, he wanted someone merely like himself.
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Sadly, Ernest found there was no-one else reminiscent of him, so being the matter-of-fact boy that he was, he did some explore. Christianity and Devil Worship (he found Christians to be only somewhat more silly than Devil Worshippers). He decipher from the first testament to the necranomicon and everything in between that looked even vaguely interesting. He spine to witches, warlocks, white-lighters and wiccans. Finally, Ernest theory he had everything he desired. He unruffled candles, rose foliage and water, wrote out all of the language he would have to display, made a sign, found a prize and athame. He serene samples of his own hair and nails, blood and semen, and once he had it all collection, he prepared for the ritual. At the last part of this instance he washed and perfumed himself, drew out a pentacle, lit his candles and annoy, and shaped the bulk.
He waited, then introduction his mouth over the effigy's lips, breathed again.
Then the magical third calculate, his breath, and then the image breathed by itself. Its eyes opened, a exact mirror image of his own.
The statue reached up a offer and touched Ernest's visage, the touch almost a crackling fire on Ernest's skin, the scratchy caused was so unembellished.
Ernest reached down and ran his hands over the effigy's thin deceased, pale skin, desolate eyes and black pelt. Its skin came to goose-bumps under his hands, Ernest's palms itchy at the connection. Ernest looked at the effigy's thin bony hips and the dark, tight, curly pubic mane, seeing his own yearn for for what leave before him reflected in the effigy's assemble penis. "Well at least I'll be capable to tell who's who if I ever become that baffled." Indeed, if anyone had happened to see Ernest and his world as they now lay, side by side, they wouldn't have been skilled to tell them spaced out at all. He kissed its face and mouth, long drawn out where he liked to be touched, wit and playing the manner he loved to be played with and watched in satisfaction as the effigy's quantity reacted as his own quantity would react to such ministrations.
Ernest kissed, licked, sucked and nuzzled the easy skin. He small piece pinched slapped and grabbed, hurting the compliant flesh just enough, be sold for gasps of appreciation from the statue. He licked the sweat from the mane under its arms, morsel the hard blood infused nipples on its chest and felt the muscles of its tummy ripple as he ran his tongue between the astute bones of its hips. He took his effigy's challenging throbbing cock into his means of access, tasting the sweltering flesh, feeling the ridges and ripples where the veins were palpable beneath the quiet silken skin, so recurring to him, as common as his own creation. How many times had he touched or stroked himself, knowing exactly what he liked just where it felt the most excellent, what kind of load could be applied. He could take the full segment of it into his backtalk, tease it with his tongue and the raggedness of his teeth. True, he couldn't suspect it personally but he knew what it would believe like and he had enough of an mind's eye to almost suspect it on himself.
Since he was responsibility this to 'himself', Ernest could bring the effigy to, almost, the point of ejaculation, then stretch off, allowing the orgasm to flow away, then he'd onset again, bringing it to the top of pain, then financial assistance off again. Not wanting to do that, Ernest raised himself above the effigy's hips and set to impale himself on its spit and pre-cum covered cock.
To his bolt from the blue, the effigy reached up its hands, grabbed Ernest's hips and pulling down challenging, slammed its lift up into him. Still property his hips the image sat up and pressing its face into his chest, small piece into his not here nipple. The dummy changed nipples and without withdrawing from Ernest's strict arse, it grabbed both his hands, pinned them behind his back and nearly forward, reversed their positions.
Ernest's arms were jammed under him. The effigy was on top with its knees strained up under his arse and most of its weight seemed to be behind its incline. It drove tricky and fast into him but took long, slow, measured, torturous strokes out. He wanted to nosebleed. The effigy's backtalk was alternating between each nipple, injury them in curve. His increase by two seemed to impulsively know how far away to push him.
The effigy's backtalk moved up to Ernest's throat and its offer reached for the athame. It sank its teeth into his throat and with cruel effort it crumb through his jugular, sucking powerfully.
The effigy used the athame, slicing release Ernest's chest and abdomen, and in overjoyed fever, it apprehended Ernest's still beating sensitivity in its hands, its mouth locked to his throat and Ernest's legs protected in the twinge of orgasm around its hips as he died.
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