Message-ID: <15222eli$9809110206@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: Nick Subject: {ASS} Funeral Games by Nick (MF no idea how to code this - sorry!) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-Id: <3.0.1.32.19980909002322.007a1880@pop3.demon.co.uk> Funeral Games by Nick (c) Nick August 1998 Note that this story is provided free for entertainment. You may copy it and distribute to friends but you may not make money from it or any part of it without my agreement, nor must you claim it as your own. This story is copyrighted to me (Nick) and I ask you to observe that. This story is of an adult nature, containing some sexually explicit scenes. I do not intend either for me or the reader to break the law in any country where it may be read, and so if for any reason the law of your country forbids you from reading adult literature, do not read any further. "James wasn't really much of a churchgoer, so I personally never became well acquainted with him, but I do know that he touched the lives of many in this parish." The congregation listened attentively to the old vicar as he gave my father a spiritual whitewash. "Jim, if I may call him that, and Doreen came to us in this sleepy little Yorkshire village, seven years ago when retirement beckoned, but I think it's fair to say that their time here has been far from 'retiring'." A respectful murmur of amusement greeted these words. "Many will remember Jim as - ah - 'a bit of a rogue', but those wonderful paintings that adorn the walls of many of us are testament to the fact that in one way at least his gifts compensated for what some would perceive as his weaknesses." And so he went on, drawing one of those wonderful portraits of an out and out scoundrel that only a man of the cloth was able to; disarming those in the congregation who hated him and would have left him hanging from a nearby tree if they could, while still managing to leave tears in the eyes of those who held some affection for him. At the end of his homily the little curtain opened to receive his coffin as it rolled forward, through the ungodly magic of the electric motor, and then closed again to conceal from us the sight of the grisly mechanism that would burn his flesh and his bones until nothing remained but ash. Later, outside the crematorium, mournful black-clad figures gathered in little huddles. Some were relatives, all of whom I knew, and some were neighbours and new friends made by my parents when they moved here, most of whom I had never met. When Sharon and I had flown the nest to pursue careers and new families, dad had retired early from a job he hated to bring my mother up here to this quiet little village to pursue his first love - art. We rarely visited and knew little of the area my parents had adopted as their new home. One woman stood alone. Her sombre black outfit did little to hide her ravishing good looks. Definitely my father's type (mine too). I went to her. "I don't believe we've met," I introduced myself, "I'm Brian, Jim's eldest." She gave me a liquid smile, her face blotchy with recent weeping. "Laura," she held out a limp hand, "I was the last person to - er - see your father alive." "Ah yes, his model." I had, of course, heard about the circumstances of his death. How she had called my mother in a state of distress when he had collapsed at his easel. The doctor was called immediately, but he was long dead by the time he arrived - a massive heart attack. I had not yet had the opportunity to see his unfinished final painting. He liked painting nudes and looking at Laura I expected that she had been 'as God made her' when he died. I didn't expect her to mention that though. Even so, I had long had a secret fascination for my father's models ever since childhood. Who were these women who disappeared into his studio to inspire him to heights of creativity? What kind of a bond did they form with the artist as he worked? So many questions. I smiled at her. "Are you coming back to the house?" She shook her head. "I just wanted to see Jim off," she said mournfully, "but I have no place with the rest of you." I was about to persuade her otherwise when I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Sharon. "The limo's waiting, Bri," she said coldly. "Coming," I answered, "I just wanted to..." "Now!" She gave Laura a snake-like smile as she all but dragged me away. **** "He was an old fucker!" I was a little surprised to hear such language from my mother in front of Sharon and I as sat sealed in the back of the undertaker's sleek black limousine, but I knew that death can do strange things to the mind of the recently widowed. "He'd fuck anything in a skirt," she paused for effect, before continuing in a dramatic whisper. "He even had a go at your sister once!" "What! Sharon?" I glanced at her and she stared reproachfully back at me, condemning me in the absence of my father. I was used to this treatment from my sibling. The thought crossed my mind that she had always needed a good fucking from someone and her present husband, currently absent because of some business imperative, barely looked up to the job. "Who else!" grunted mum. Then she turned her full vitriol on me. "And don't think I didn't notice you making overtures to that slutty model of his!" I felt this was a little strong - after all he had dropped dead in front of her. "Ran naked and screaming from his studio, she did!" she wagged her head knowingly. She was enjoying this. "I got there to find him on the floor by her couch, trousers round his ankles, and stiff - in more ways than one!" That was more like it. I smiled to myself. At least he died happy, then. I never really believed the sanitised version anyway. Sharon obviously had done, though. She was visibly shocked. Earlier that day, while helping to prepare for the reception afterwards, Sharon had taken me aside. "Brian," she had pronounced authoritatively, "I know what you can be like, but I want you to think of poor mummy today. She has been through a lot and I want none of your tasteless comments upsetting her or anyone else. Do you understand?" Watching the scene, one would not have believed that she was my little sister who, as a child, I used to tease mercilessly. That was as children, though. A few 'indiscretions' with the opposite sex on my part had left her with the moral 'high ground' in adulthood, and taking my generally dissolute attitude, she had turned the tables most effectively. I remember her sniping viciously at me as my mother blasted me with comments about how 'disappointed in me' she was and how I was 'just like my father'. This last statement I secretly took as a compliment, even though I knew that was not how it was intended. Even so, mum's revelations in the car could not help but make me smile. In the end it seemed it was her who was making the 'tasteless comments'. "He corrupted everything he touched!" was her parting shot as the car drew up outside the house. **** Sharon and I handed out glasses of sherry to the arriving guests, while mum greeted them with kisses and crocodile tears. Despite Sharon's warnings, or maybe because of them, I found myself more aware of the female guests than usual, particularly the prettier ones. Perhaps it was the relief at having the ordeal over that made me feel so flirtatious, or maybe it was simply that many of them knew how to wear black. Maybe it was the inherently erotic atmosphere that death - any death - seems to generate. In particular there was one young cousin... I gave myself a mental 'cold shower'. Sharon was right; this was not the time or the place to think such thoughts. At least not for the moment. After the sherry, there was stronger alcohol available for those (most of us) who had a taste for it. As it began to flow so did the unguarded comments as people began to loosen up. I circulated, introducing myself to people I did not know and renewing acquaintances with those I did. In particular I just couldn't remember the name of that cousin but that didn't matter; I was interested in getting familiar with more important aspects of her. If only I could find her... As the buffet that Sharon and I had prepared slowly found its way into the stomachs of the living, I found that hunger pangs were beginning to override the sexual imperative and decided to fill my belly with what remained before resuming my quest for that elusive cousin. By now there were only a few sandwiches and vol-au-vents left which most people had lost interest in. "Hello," I said to the only other person still scavenging. She was a dark haired woman, a little older than me perhaps, and I had missed her in my introductions. As I spoke, she had just taken a large bite from a curly sandwich. "Mmmph!" she swallowed quickly. "Hello... you must be Brian, the son and heir!" "Well, er..." as far as I knew my father's estate, such as it was, would be devoted to my mother's support, and I had little doubt that what was left when she died would probably go to Sharon. "I suppose so!" I liked the image. She smiled looking me up and down with piercing black eyes (and what eyes!). "So, what does sudden wealth feel like?" she purred seductively. I sighed theatrically. "It's a big problem - I just don't know how I'm going to spend it all!" "Ooh!" she flashed at me, moving closer. "I'm sure I could be of some assistance there!" I grinned and she grinned and she ate the rest of her sandwich. "So were you one of dad's models?" I asked. She suppressed a laugh and shook her head vigorously. "Good Lord no! I'm here with my mother." She pointed out an old lady who had just settled down with my mother. "I'm just a 'hanger-on' really. I'd do anything for a free lunch!" I liked this 'hanger-on'. She had clearly been dragged into this alien family gathering she knew little of in order to keep her mother company. She was far too much fun to be left just 'hanging on' any longer than was necessary and so I decided to see if I could make her feel a little more welcome. "Why don't I show you round the - er - estate?" I said. She glanced over at her mother, now talking earnestly to mine. "I thought you'd never ask!" Although my parents were never very rich, good property in some of the less accessible parts of Yorkshire is fairly cheap. They were able to afford a reasonable house, with an annex which dad used for a studio, and a piece of land large enough to require the full time attention of a hired gardener during the summer at least. As we toured the garden I chatted to Helen, that was her name, and tried to find out a little more about her. I was not too successful, since at every opportunity she would steer the conversation back to my father and his painting. Was she in the art business? No, just a keen amateur, but she'd heard a great deal about his paintings and his talent. Where from? Oh, around. She was very keen to see where he worked. Eventually she persuaded me to find the key to his studio and opened it up. Mum took little interest in his art and rarely went in there. Indeed it seemed more or less untouched since the day he had died. Tubes of oil paint were scattered everywhere, he was not the tidiest of men at the best of times, and his final painting was still on the easel. As Helen looked around the place, taking in the atmosphere and inspecting the pictures which he had left leaning against the walls, I found myself gazing at it for the first time. It was strange to think that that the naked and sexually arrogant female form in front of me was the pale heart-broken figure I had met at the crematorium. As I pondered the nature of the relationship between her - the model - and the artist - my dad - I became aware of Helen standing behind me. "It looks as if she needs... finishing off," she said quietly. I looked around at her to see if her face confirmed what my mind had interpreted. "Lock the door," she breathed, rendering my enquiry irrelevant. I looked into those black eyes for what seemed ages. The situation seemed so bizarre, almost surreal and I felt as if I was in uncharted territory. To make love to Helen in dad's studio. To make love to her with his paintings - his spirit - watching over us. To make love to her with his ashes still warm, while our mothers consoled each other in their grief. To make love to her... The more I thought about it, the more certain I was that the old man was smiling as he looked down on us. Oh yes, and I grinned wickedly as I locked the door, it was most definitely what he would have wanted. "Do you believe," she breathed as she placed her arms on my shoulders, "that a room like this has a spirit of its own? Can you feel it?" I knew exactly what she meant. The sexual tension was down to more than just our own chemistry. It was in the air. The energy radiated from his paintings that adorned the room, and especially in that unfinished work. She prevented me from thinking further by enveloping my lips in hers with a gentle sigh. I pulled her to me, feeling the curves of her body and the pressure of her breasts against me. She pushed my shoulders down so that my head nestled against her breasts and my face brushed against her nipples as they distorted her blouse. I fumbled with the buttons, but she tore them loose for me, ripping her breasts from her flimsy bra and thrusting them against me. My mouth closed around a pink nipple and I heard her moan as I suckled. The she pulled me down with her as she sank onto the models couch itself, leaving me kneeling between her parted thighs. I was staring at her sex, barely concealed behind her green silken panties - a splash of colour against the black of her suit and stockings and the white flesh at the top of her thighs. Pushing her skirt up high on her hips, the smell of her musk came at me like an animal released from a cage and drew me into her, to its source. She thrust her hips gently forward as I pulled the crotch of her panties aside to reveal the redness of her lips, another splash of colour against the black of her hair and the white of her underlying mound. She jerked convulsively and whimpered softly as my flickering tongue made contact with her glistening flesh. I felt so close to her. The sight, smell and taste of her seemed to insinuate themselves into me as she pulled my face into her, cricking my neck and restricting my breathing. I licked at every part of her, in and around her cunt, her thighs and her buttocks. Her expensive clothes and mine became an untidy pile on the floor as I explored her nakedness with my own. "Do it," she said softly as she lay on her belly now, thrusting her buttocks up at me. "Do it now." Kneeling behind her I looked down at her as the tip of my penis explored her folds. My eyes roved over the complex geography of her undulating back. I marvelled at the unique femininity of her sacral dimples, the way skin moved over her ribs. I wondered at the beauty of the ridges and valleys around her spine. I marvelled at how the complexity of such a wonderful body developed, like so many others, from a spot of protoplasm. The consequence, itself, of the actions of two lovers... Her head lay on its side on the cushion. Her black eyes seemed to stare sightlessly. I drove into her and her eyes closed as she gasped her pleasure. With each movement, with each sound she uttered and with each spasm of her vagina I felt my tension rise until my own body passed the point of no return. I filled her with my seed and then fell forward on to of her. Skin to skin, flesh to flesh we lay together in warm silence. We had both found something new and unique that we knew would change our lives. Sharon, however, would not let me get away with shirking my family duties for long, not if she could help it, and we were both startled from our reverie by her knock on the door. "Brian? Are you in there?" Slowly I disentangled myself from Helen and started to pull on some clothing. "Brian you're wanted, there's a problem." I walked towards the door, feeling in my pocket for the key. "I shan't be long," I said, but there was no key. I turned back towards Helen who still lay naked on the couch, the key dangling from her fingers. I stopped in my tracks. I now stood in view of the unfinished painting. Whether by design or accident, Helen had adopted exactly the pose in the picture. "Brian, I know you're in there, come out now!" Sharon was out there, and we were in here. I suddenly saw that inside the studio and outside were two different worlds as Sharon's strident voice demanded my conformity. I knew now that her world was no longer one I wanted to be a part of. "I'm staying here!" I replied staring into Helen's black eyes. "Brian, mummy's in a terrible state, you must come, something's happened." I walked slowly back to Helen and sat beside her. "I don't care!" I answered. "Brian!" Sharon was incredulous. "What the hell is going on?" I held Helen to me, caressing her hair as we waited while Sharon computed the meaning of my rebellion. "Are you in there with some woman?" I looked into those cold black eyes of hers, the eyes that captivated me. "Oh, my God!" I could barely hear Sharon's deathly whisper. "It's her isn't it!" her voice suddenly rose to a shriek. "Brian, you haven't... you're with *her* aren't you! Brian. BRIAN, DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'VE DONE!?" I knew. I had seen those wicked eyes before. They were my father's eyes. e-mail: Nick@cassandra.demon.co.uk -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----