The Usual Disclaimer: This is a work of fantasy. All characters featured in sexual situations are over 18. The characters in these stories are fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons living, dead or undead is purely coincidental. Do not try this at home.
I wrote this story for HeyAll's "On the Job" themed event. It is my first time participating in such an event and I hope you enjoy the story.
Tamara's life was always overshadowed by the presence of death. Her family had owned the cemetery and funeral home for over a century. The family business had a way of isolating each generation of her family from the community in which they lived. Their town was typical of many Midwestern communities of the era; it had grown rapidly over three decades as it became enmeshed in the suburban sprawl of the city thirty miles away.
Tamara's grandfather had owned several large tracts of land on the outskirts of town. His grandfather had bought up the former farmland back during the Depression, when those farms had been abandoned by families unable to remain solvent. She looked up from the row of headstones to regard their former property. Developers had turned it into blocks of homes, strip malls, and restaurants. The cemetery was surrounded now.
For Tamara, the cemetery was a peaceful green jewel in the middle of that busy section of town. Her life had been spent here with her family. As a small girl, she had followed her grandmother around this place. She had learned all about the beautiful flowers from that wise and loving woman. She had admired the gleaming, polished stones, arranged so carefully into neat rows. It wasn't until she was twelve and was first allowed to attend a funeral there that she began to understand the sadness overshadowing this beautiful place.
She lovingly tended the flowers on the last grave of the row. This section of the cemetery was relatively recent. She had known the woman whose grave she now tended. As she stood and looked over the orderly row of headstones, she could recall each of those funerals. She had been in high school for most of them.
That was what had isolated her family for so long. She had seen the families of those she now tended when they had been rocked by tragedy. Her presence was always an uncomfortable reminder to those classmates who had lost loved ones. Tamara had never planned to participate in the "family business" but here she was, at twenty-five, working as her grandmother had tending the flowers and keeping the headstones and burial plots neat and clean.
She had scarcely dated in high school. Her plans for college had not gone as she had hoped. Tamara had a bachelor's degree. Unfortunately, the economy had taken a brutal downturn just as she graduated. Her parents had offered her this job, and had paid off her student loans so that they would not be hanging over her.
It was generous of them, really. She loved her parents dearly and appreciated that they looked out for her as they did. It was just impossible for her to date when she lived in this town and was known as "The Undertaker's Daughter." It certainly did not help that her wardrobe consisted of so much drab clothing. Again, though, it had been about the family business. It wouldn't do for her to parade around such a somber place in anything colorful or sexy.
She heard an approaching, rhythmic "creak, thump, creak, thump" and turned to find the source of the sound. A wan smile touched her lips as she watched her former classmate, James, as he made his way through the cemetery on his crutches. It was a miracle, really, that he was not buried here. He had been the only survivor of a horrific car accident that had claimed his wife, his mother, and his two tragically young children.
James grimaced at the pain shooting through his surgically repaired legs and forced himself to continue. It was bad enough, in his mind, that he had missed the funerals of his loved ones. Nobody but James blamed him, of course. He had been in the hospital for months, and he was lucky to be alive.
So many people had told him that—"You're lucky to be alive, James." He gritted his teeth as the montage played through his mind; so many solicitous faces, telling him how lucky he was. He didn't feel lucky. He had lost almost his entire family. He was bankrupt from all the medical bills, and his home had been repossessed. He could barely drag his crippled ass to the grave of the love of his life. How was this "lucky"?
His physical pain reached a crescendo along with the emotional as he finally reached the plot. Tears streamed down his face. He had not been prepared. James had thought to pay his respects to his wife, but her headstone was flanked by those of his children.
Oh, God!
he thought,
How could I have forgotten?
Someone had deemed it appropriate to use smaller headstones for the children, but that only served to emphasize the tragedy now. Sobs racked his body as James pictured their tiny faces. His legs gave way, and he was surprised to find soft hands supporting him so that he did not fall. James could barely see through the tears, but he did recognize Tamara's voice.
"I'm glad to see you, James," she said. There was none of the condolence in her voice that he expected, and it was a blessed relief. "Amy would understand," she continued. "I'm sorry you missed it, but it was a lovely service."
She wrapped one arm around his midsection, keeping him on his feet while she fished out a handkerchief and handed it to him. James took it gratefully and wiped his eyes. It took a while before he could see clearly again, and he looked at Tamara's face closely. She was not looking at him. Instead, she was gazing sadly at the trio of graves.
Oh, they were pretty headstones. It was just what they represented that transformed that creamy marble into a message of despair.
With a start, James realized that Tamara's breast was pressed against his side. He thought that he could feel her thick nipple through the dark grey of her shirt. It felt incongruous—he had never even thought of Tamara as
having
breasts. He was still staring at her when she turned her head and fixed him with a sad smile.
She had always seemed to him such a mousy little thing. Tamara's attire in school had been drab, and she had worn thick glasses. Now, she was holding him upright easily and he was aware that she was a real woman as her scent wafted into his nostrils. This was not any perfume; there was a faint hint of her deodorant and shampoo, but she had a faint aroma of sweat from her efforts...and he could detect another, earthy smell that informed him that beneath those unflattering clothes there was a...he gulped as the words
wet pussy
came unbidden to his mind.
It had been a long time since either of them had been laid. Tamara had managed to find a one-night stand several months earlier when she had hooked up with an attractive young man in a nightclub in the city. James had been in the hospital for four months. He had only been able to get around on crutches for three days, but had insisted on getting out of the hospital. He was pushing himself too hard, really, to be here today.
Tamara knew it; knew that he was pushing harder than he should. As her arm held him firmly, she was also reminded that he was a man. Despite his weakened condition, the muscles of his back were thick slabs of muscle against her arm. Tamara could picture those muscles straining and flexing as he pumped his hips into her...
