Grave Matter

by Karina Halle

Grief is funny like that. It lives alongside you, sometimes in silence, and then a random thought, or memory, or smell will punch through you like a fist, your bleeding heart in its grasp, and you have to relive it all over again. I often think of grief as a cycle from which there is no escape, an ouroboros, a snake of sorrow eating its tail.

“Such a pretty pussy,” a gravelly voice says from between my legs. “Such a tight little cunt for such a dirty fucking whore.” I blush, hot, his words making me as wet as his tongue as he glides it up between my thighs. I want him so badly I want to tear my skin right off. “Tell me what you want, Syd,” the man says, blowing on my clit until my legs clamp the side of his head. “Want me to lick your sweet cunt until you almost come and have to beg me for it? Get you so wet that you’re squirting in my face? Or is that no longer enough to satisfy you? No. You want my cock shoved up that tight little hole, even though we both know it won’t fit.”

“I want you to tell me to shut the fuck up and take it like a filthy slut.”

“Look at you, my little pet,” he says through a hiss. “Holding my cock like you’ve held countless others. But you don’t know how to please me, do you? You’re not quite good enough. Not yet.” That’s what you think. “Prove your worth to me,” he goes on, voice growing hoarse. “Prove you’re something more than a useless little slut, a vessel for my pleasure.” “Yes, Doctor,”

“Keep going. Taking my cock like the good little bitch you are.”

“Disobedient,” he growls, yanking my hair in a deliciously painful way. “You know that sweet cunt belongs to me, pet. You know you don’t have permission to touch what’s mine.”

“Stay completely still,” he says gruffly. “Don’t fucking move an inch, don’t fucking make a sound, or you’re going to bed with your hands tied, your swollen cunt begging for it.” He leans in, licking up the rim of my ear, making me shiver. “Then again, I do love it when you beg. I think your cunt does too.”

“I said, crawl over to the desk, my little pet.” He pauses. “That is what you wish to be called, isn’t it?” Oh fuck yes. “Yes, doctor,”

“Because you are my future, Syd,” he says, his voice low and gruff. “Because that’s all there is. The past doesn’t exist anymore. Only now and tomorrow is what does. And I want you—now and tomorrow.”

“Tell me to fill you up until it’s coming out your mouth,”

“you take me so well, good girl, greedy little slut, yes just like that.”

“Are you going to judge me for being old?” I laugh. “No. I like older men.” “Fair enough. I was born in 1985.” “So you’re thirty-seven.” “Yes.” He hesitates. “Does that count as old?” “Sure does,” I say playfully. “At least you’re not forty.”