Whose-a-thon Story: "The Bodies That Move Me"

[indybaggins.livejournal.com]

Title: The Bodies That Move Me
Pairing: Colin/Jeff, Colin/Greg, Colin/Ryan, Colin/Jeff/Greg/Ryan
Rating: NC-17
Promt: “Dead Bodies-Colin is a lonesome mortician who'd be fired if his boss knew what he did all night. He makes his own fun when he works the late shift all alone. Unfortunately for the world, but fortunately for him there was recent accident that claimed the lives of an entire tour bus of traveling improv actors, leaving him with plenty to do this evening.”
Warning: Severe warning for necrophilia (sexual actions with corpses)



Teaser trailer for this story:

In the small hours of the morning Colin finishes Mrs. Jansen’s face, and strokes her hair lightly before covering her with a sheet and rolling her back into the fridge. She looks beautiful.

It doesn’t matter that he has never met her in the eighty-eight years she was alive, he knows her more intimately now than any lover she has ever had. He has touched every inch of her skin, both inside and out. He has seen every secret line and scar, every wrinkle, every blemish. He has traced the outline of her ribs beneath his fingertips and pressed a closed-mouthed kiss to her icy cheek. He has lifted her into his arms, naked and frail as a bird, cold and stiff and unforgiving. He feels respect for her, care for the frailty of old age: old people are easy.

Young people never are.

It happened the first time when Colin was at college, his second week of embalming, when a corpse was still something unreal and frightening (sometimes he desperately longs for the possibility of reliving that day- that he might have made a different decision, that he not had felt anything at all) and there was a body, a woman, a girl about his age with hard little nipples and he had grazed them with the side of his arm. On accident, maybe because he had been convinced that she was not a person at all, right then, that she could never make him feel as if she was. He had spent a moment stunned, and then flushed and walked out of the room. His instructor had found him dry-heaving over the grass, and had said, comfortingly, “It happens to all of us.”

Colin hadn’t known whether the instructor meant the nausea, or the slight hint or arousal that had made him bolt in the first place. He easily remembers the guilt though, the disgust of realizing his body had felt something he was never supposed to feel.

“They’re only bodies, not people,” the instructor had said while clapping him on the back, “they’re not there anymore to take offence to anything we do.”

And Colin had nodded and gone back into the room. That night he had touched himself and tried very hard not to think of the girl’s small breasts. The curve of her belly. The crinkle of her pubic hair against his gloves.

It didn’t work.

So now, twenty years later, Colin no longer throws up. He has given up on feeling guilty, he just feels. And he is good at what he does, meticulous and skilled. He studies birth marks, surgery scars, nail beds and dental work. He can identify a head wound from ten feet away; knows how to braid a schoolgirls pigtails, cornrows or a trophy wife’s long, silky hair matted with blood en pieces of scalp. He carefully brushes wigs, perms and comb-overs. He paints nails fire-engine red, applies rouge and lipstick. He is beautician and mortician and embalmer and the very last friend anyone will ever have all in one, and if sometimes his touch lingers, he takes a little too much, he does not think it truly matters. Not really.

So when Mrs. Jansen is finished Colin sits down in the office, leans back and unzips his pants. The girl on that day in college had only been the first to a long line of bodies he was attracted to. She was soon joined by both women and men that had made an impression, somehow. Rock hard dicks that just begged for a closer look. Ample breasts he could bury his face into. Long legs, neatly manicured feet, the perfect curve of a neck. He has built up a whole catalogue he can jerk off to. Like now, still wearing one latex glove slippery from the oil he had spread all over Mrs. Jansen just minutes before. He wraps it around his dick and sighs at the contact. He doesn’t do it that often, actual sex. He’s been fired once before. But sometimes he just has to play.

He moves his hand up and down, short strokes, this is just a normal day, there’s isn’t even anyone around he wants to touch, but it’s been a couple days and he feels the pressing hum of his body looking for release. He thinks about the woman with a sweet, sweet expression on her face he had said sorry to before he had spread her legs and entered her, the way the wheels of the bench she was lying on had screeched across the linoleum as he moved in and out. He thinks of the fat Asian man who had actually died with a strap-on on (sex induced heart-attack) and the way he had rode it multiple times during the days the body was in the freezer (Colin never said sorry to him, he thought that maybe he would have appreciated it after all). The tattooed Hell’s Angel whose mouth he opened up so wide that he ended up breaking the jaw just as he was coming all over the blue tongue. The stiff limbs, the unseeing eyes, it’s all too amazing and he has a vague image of grabbing a head and pulling the hair before he comes, white spurts onto the latex glove.

He never said he was normal.

He smiles while he takes off the glove and starts the clean-up. He even hums a little as he notices his shift will be done soon. And really, this profession isn’t for normal people anyway. Death stinks. There’s feces, blood, urine, puss, every disgusting bodily fluid one can imagine (and then a couple more still). There’s the ever present smell of formaldehyde, bleach and chlorine. There’s gloves and tubes and working lonely nightshifts in cold, metal fridges. There’s not a single human contact ever, not except the dead ones. It’s enough to drive anyone crazy, skin-hungry, starved for touch enough that you’ll take all you can get. So he doesn’t apologize. No need to.

When dawn breaks Colin packs up and drives home to an empty house. No children’s bikes spread across the driveway. No warm and sweat-smelling wife he can crawl next to in bed. No food ready in the fridge, no messages on his answering machine, no one asking him how his day was. Some days he wishes he would have had a different live, a different profession. A garbage man, a janitor, maybe even a teacher- when he is feeling particularly courageous. In truth, he knows it’s too late for something like that. A family. That’s he’s simply not good enough with people. Not the living, at least.

So Colin goes to sleep in his unmade, cold bed and forgoes eating, instead closes his eyes and remembers some of his old favorites. Soft hair. Sleepy smile. Blue lips. Wrinkly cock. And as the sun creeps higher and higher through the blinds he falls asleep, relaxed.

When he wakes up again near evening it’s simply a case of carefully washing, himself, the counters, eating, reading the paper (Mrs. Jansen is in there. She was a devoted wife, mother and grandmother. Widowed for over a decade already. Colin is glad he kissed her on the cheek. She probably deserved it.), and waiting. And as he drives out back to work his day starts all over again. Easy.

But that day, as soon as he walks into work he knows something is different. His boss is on the phone and although he sounds grave and sad enough, the man is tapping his foot, practically buzzing with excitement. Colin doesn’t even bother taking off his jacket. He listens, and then gets ready to leave again. A major bus accident off on route fifty-seven, some performers on their way to a show, five bodies to collect. And that’s where the real fun starts. It doesn’t happen often that there is more than one body on his table, let alone five. All men about his age too, if he heard it right. When Colin gets up there it’s carnage, of course, police and body parts galore. The bus had tipped and trapped most of them beneath, no survivors besides the driver who had caused the accident in the first place (and isn’t that ironic). By the time Colin receives the five black body bags and signs for them he is already slightly manic, a bounce to his step, because five bodies. Five!

Sadly enough the files say that the performers who died, (currently piled up in his modern-style Hearse, one on top of the other) come from too far away to embalm himself, they have to be cleaned up and shipped out in the morning. That means one night. One night to play.

So Colin drives them back as quick as he can, unloads them one by one and puts them on the cleaning table to rinse them off. “Drew Allison Carey” died from multiple skull fractures, face completely mashed in (and he’s the only one Colin has ever heard of, not even owning a TV). He hurries with him, when the faces are gone he is never very interested. “Charles Esten” has lost his entire lower half, legs rolling around separately from the rest in the bottom of the bag. Strangely enough he is still wearing shoes. Colin carefully sews the legs back on and cleans him up but then moves on. “Jeffrey Bryan Davis” is in even worse shape, the body looking like it went through a blender, unrepairable, but strangely enough the decapitated head looks perfectly fine, eyes still open, red mouth stuck into a small “oh” expression. He’s gorgeous and Colin sneaks in a kiss with tongue before he’s even completely onto the table.

“Ryan Lee Stiles” is a different thing entirely and Colin sighs in absolute pleasure as soon as he cuts the clothes off him. Long, lean body pretty much intact. Pleasant expression. But, the best thing of all, a giant erection. It happens more regularly than people assume, about one in ten of all male corpses reach him with a port-mortem hard-on, most often after suicide (hanging) or, like in this case, crushed spine in a car accident. It has something to do with the blood flow and it does go away, so Colin quickly slips an improvised cock ring on him and simply admires the view for a while. It’s large, but not too thick, straight, still a nice color. Colin desperately wants to lick it and allows himself a small taste before cleaning the body. Salty. He must have had sex recently before dying, and that alone is enough to make Colin’s dick twitch in his pants.

He’s already so focused on fantasizing about Ryan that he nearly forgets about the last body, “Gregory Everett Proops”, but when he does see him he is happy he did because “Greg” turns out to be in great shape too. Greg’s not hard, but his dick is full and beautiful anyway. Slight belly, strong stubbly jaw, glasses still on his face.

Colin’s gaze skips from one body to the next, to the next. It’s like meeting long lost friends. Skinny legs. Hairy butts. Large feet, pale knees, leather shoes. Soft hands, long fingers. Pouty lips. The great cock, the softer, full one, wrinkly small one on “Charles”, no cock at all anymore on “Jeffrey”- “Jeff?” but that doesn’t matter because his head is gorgeous (and easily portable). Colin feels like a child on Christmas morning, trying to figure out which present to open first. He could easily watch them all for hours more. Touch every inch of their skin, compare and contrast, talk to them, ply their fingers and let them run over his face. But he doesn’t have time. Driving to pick them up, undressing and washing them has already cost a decent part of the night, and by the time the sun comes up they have to be back in the bags, clean, ready for shipping. That leaves a small window of time where he can do whatever he wants (really- whatever, and that idea is so intoxicating right now he can barely stand it). He tries not to be overwhelmed by the possibilities, but it’s difficult. Colin clears “Drew” away, and readies him for shipping. After some consideration, he does the same to “Charles”. Under any other circumstance he would have played with him too, but now he wants to focus on the ones that are truly different. Jeff’s mess of a body gets neatly put away too, and Colin carries Jeff’s head (with a grunt, those things are always heavier than you’d expect) to a table next to Greg. Perfect.

As the final touch he takes a chair and jams it under the door handle so that it won’t open. Colin knows the chance is very slight that anyone would come down here, but it never hurts to be too careful. In the back of his mind he’s vaguely aware that he might need a cover story, some day. That he might end up in jail. That what he does is not okay by any moral standard. But the true reason there is a flush on his face, eyes gleaming, is that he has all the power tonight. It’s his own little play, and he’s the director. Jeff’s unseeing eyes are looking from the table at him directly and Colin unzips his pants, lets them fall down over his knees along with his underwear and bends down to ask Jeff, looking into his eyes “Would you like to suck my cock Jeff? Please?”

Jeff says nothing, and Colin comes closer. He licks his own finger, and spreads some of the spit over Jeff’s dry lips. He lets his finger drift further, into Jeff’s mouth, feeling the edge of teeth and soft, spongy tongue. Colin sighs. Such a pretty face. His own dick has been hard for a while (ever since he saw the site of the accident? He can’t even remember) and having it out in the open feels great. He grips the base of his cock, steps even closer, and slowly lets the tip slide over Jeff’s face. So close that Jeff’s eyelashes tickle him. So close that he can watch Jeff’s dark springy hair bounce back as his dick runs through it. Gorgeous. He takes Jeff’s head with both hands, pries the jaw open some more, and aims his dick right into Jeff’s mouth. At the first contact Colin hums and makes sure he goes slow, slowly in, the lips are too dry still and stick to his flesh for a second before yielding. Then the tongue, he feels its slide. Then the back of Jeff’s throat, an abrupt end, but so good. He goes all the way out, and in again. Less slow. Sooo good.

With an effort Colin steps away, clumsy steps because of his pants still hanging between his feet, and takes the glass bottle with embalming oil he leaves on the top shelf. He drips some of it on his hand (cold, greasy). He rubs the oil between both of his hands, warming it, and over his dick, a quick, generous pull, and then both hands over Jeff’s face, the lips, the mouth. His heart is already beating fast, thudding in his chest. As Colin tries to put his dick in again, one hand tangles into Jeff’s hair and leaves oil there too. It’s heaven now. The oil warms up quick, and it turns Jeff’s mouth into a smooth, slick cavern he can thrust into without any resistance. Hands in Jeff’s hair, hips snapping in and out, and he catches himself saying things, crude dialogue that feels entirely alien coming from his lips, things like “Oh yeah, you like that, don’t you?” “I’m fucking your mouth…” And, “Jeff, oh Jeff,” and that feels right so he does it again “Jeff, Jeff, Jeff” liking the sound, the connection of it.

Colin stops himself before he gets completely into it, before he feels his orgasm build because there is so much more to play with and at his age, he can only expect to come once. It’s hard though, and he moves in and out a couple times more before reluctantly pulling out of Jeff’s mouth. His pants have been annoying him for a while, so he unties his shoes and removes everything besides his socks. The floor is cold. His hands are shaking a little for some reason. He leaves Jeff’s head for what it is, and moves over to Greg (leaving the best for last, he tells himself, quickly eyeing Ryan’s stiff cock, later).

Greg’s penis is completely malleable still, rigor mortis hasn’t set in yet. Colin kneads it between his unsteady hands, lets it glide between his fingers, lets Greg’s balls roll back and forth. He imagines Greg’s gasps. Again he says “You like that, don’t you, Greg?” And it makes him feel good, to ask. He lies down, the edge of the metal table digging into his groin, his head settled into the crook of Greg’s thigh, nose and mouth right onto Greg’s dick. Colin breathes him in for a while (sweat, manly, life), then sucks Greg’s flaccid dick into his mouth and rolls it around with his tongue. When he lets go the flesh looks wet and slippery. He moves his head up and lets it rests on Greg’s hairy belly, while pulling Greg’s penis up and down, miming a hand-job, imagining enjoyment from Greg, encouragement. Then he sits up (the metal table rocking dangerously) and buttons open his shirt, shedding it and his undershirt. Besides the socks, he’s completely naked now, and his chest breaks out in goose bumps.

Colin crawls all the way onto the table, and lies over Greg. His whole body covering Greg’s. They are about the same size, Colin sees happily. He stays close like that, cuddles him for a while, and then moves so that his warm dick is aligned with Greg’s slippery soft one. He rocks back and forth, the table screeching over the floor, whispering stupid things into Greg’s ear, things like “you’re beautiful” and “so hot”. He can’t keep it up long, it’s too difficult keeping his balance, but when he leaves Greg his own body feels warmer. Comforted, somehow.

Standing up, already missing the contact, he asks Greg “Will you help me?” and maneuvers Greg’s hand so that one finger is pointing and the others closed into a fist. The pointed finger gets some oil onto it, and Colin goes to stand over it, one leg on either side, so he can see Greg’s face. He continues to talk to Greg while he leads the finger between his own butt cheeks, touch the opening there, move around a little, tease, “like that,” he says to Greg, and then moves the finger in, slowly, deliciously. Greg’s finger is in all the way before it reaches his prostate, and Colin moans softly when it does. It’s been a while. He would be perfectly happy to stay there, maybe push into Jeff’s mouth again and leave Greg’s finger in his ass, move back and forth until he comes, but he has a different plan. Ryan to get to.

“Ryan Stiles,” Colin rolls the letters in his mouth while he looks over at the man, repeats and remembers them. God, such a great dick. There’s no other word for it. Great. Amazing. Looking at the size of it, Colin grins and moves Greg’s hand to take two of his fingers. And, after a while, three. He groans. His dick is rock hard now, his body getting used to the stretch, all of the hard work and anticipation has him completely excited already but when thinking on what to do next he suddenly realizes that these people knew each other. They were friends- there’s a decent chance that the musk he had tasted on Ryan’s dick had something to do with someone right here, and that makes it even better, he has to stop himself from reaching the edge just thinking about it.

Taking a breath, Colin steps away from Greg’s fingers. His entire body feels like an erogenous zone now, as if a simple touch from any of them could set him off. Enough preparation, he just wants more. Better. He steps around the table, cock jutting out awkwardly as he walks, and pushes Ryan’s and Greg’s tables together. He rolls Greg on his side, lets Greg’s hand settle on Ryan’s hip and yeah, he likes that a lot. Greg’s head to Ryan’s, their lips barely touching, and it looks so intimate that he feels something unsettle in his chest. God. Greg’s fingers wrapped around Ryan’s dick, Ryan’s head falling back in pleasure, Jeff coming from the side and nibbling Ryan’s neck, Colin’s dick twitches again. “Why don’t we all have one big kiss,” Colin whispers, his voice failing at the last word, and as he takes Jeff’s head and places it next to Ryan’s the picture fits, all of them close and kissing and happy. He feels amazing, even his skin pulsating with desire, high on the feeling of arousal, no, sex, real sex. He can’t wait any longer so he crawls onto Ryan’s table, sits on his knees over Ryan and slowly lowers himself over Ryan’s oiled cock. It hurts. It’s immense, the feeling is all-encompassing, and it he reaches his prostate Colin moans loudly, not holding back any more.

He lies down, lets himself spread out over Ryan, and it’s incredible. His face feels like it is on fire, so close to Ryan’s mouth and Greg’s and Jeff’s and he kisses them all in turn, tasting their cold lips as he moves his body up and down, pushing himself onto Ryan’s dick, using the friction to leave wet trails of pre-come over Ryan’s belly. It’s glorious and he had planned so much more, to take Jeff’s mouth again, maybe even Greg’s or Ryan’s or maybe really fuck someone, but he is feeling light-headed and his balls are pulling tight and he is grinning and sweating, looking at all their faces and he just wants this, this forever. As he pushes his tongue into Greg’s dry mouth and Jeff’s lips are feeling slick on his neck and Ryan is moving with him he starts to see stars and then comes in an overwhelming wave of pleasure, one of the best orgasms of his life, hot onto Ryan’s belly, amazing, amazing.

It takes him a long time to catch his breath, and even longer to get the will together to ever get up. He feels warm. Spent. Loved.

Eventually he peels himself away and cleans up all the evidence. On himself, on them. He is in a daze, both not really believing what had just happened and trying to remember every second of it, already cataloging it for later. His ass hurts as he moves, but it’s a pleasant ache, a reminder of something good. He wraps everyone up neatly and is sitting behind the desk, waiting, by the time the sun comes up and his colleague comes to relieve him.

He doesn’t sleep that day.









mood: strange