Cold Stone Tomb

I was fighting to come up from a great depth, swimming hard against the current, trying to force my eyes open.

"I want to live," I moaned, although whether internally, to myself only, or out loud, I did not know. "But I want this too. Deeper, thicker. Stretch me, possess me. Wrap your dick around my heart and squeeze me. Harder, deeper. Moooaaan. I want to melt into you, ride your dick forever."

I fought up into consciousness. Belly against the cold stone of the mossy tomb surface. The monster of a cock deep inside my ass, growing, thickening, pulsing, rhythmically fucking me as I've never been fucked before.

A heavily muscled, pulsating body covering my back, with a powerful arm around my chest, forcing my arms above my head, holding me powerless with the strength of a lion, far greater strength than I had. And my strength ebbing. Sharp nails at my buttocks, skewering me to the surface of the cold stone tomb. Lips at my stretched neck. No, more than lips. Teeth at my neck, incised into my flesh. Blood trickling down my neck, but not all, not most. Most being sucked up into his mouth with a pulsing, gurgling noise. A rhythm matching my quickened heartbeat.

Blood dribbling down my side from the fingernails dug in my buttocks. Blood dripping on the surface of the tomb from the slashes on my chest, from when, spent with running, already under him, being fucked, I turned on him and he slashed my shirt off me with broad, violent sweeps of his sharp fingernails.

I can feel my life ebbing. And I want to live. "I want to live," I cry out. But I want the glorious fuck too. Never like this before. The ultimate. I want it to go on forever and ever.

Naked on the stone, both of us naked. But covered, covered by his black satin cape. Rhythmic rise and fall of the bodies, in unison, under the billowing cloak. Undulating up and down to the rhythm of my heartbeat, to the rhythm of the sucking at my neck, to the rhythm of the fuck. Sighing, groaning, moaning.

I want to live. Fighting now, writhing under him, feeling my life ebb, my limbs going numb. The probing cock growing and growing, filling me to splitting. Wanting to live but wanting the fuck to go on.

I had dressed for the fuck. It was All Hallows Eve, and the streets of New Orleans were filled with drunken revelers, many in garish costume. All on the make. I had walked into the French Quarter for the fuck. I had entered the Club Fantastic for the fuck. I had even looked at him from across the room, conveying "fuck me" to him. He returned a level, knowing stare that sent shivers up my spine. And a wicked smile that had me turning and walking quickly out of the club and out of the quarter, and up Promenade, my pace quickening, my panic growing.

I was at a jog, afraid he was behind me—at the same time afraid and hoping he was behind me—almost like I could feel him loping along in my wake, easily covering the ground at my own pace even though I was panting and my lungs were beginning to burn. I was in shape; I was in terrific shape. But I was running scared. Yes, running now, because at a corner, with a black sedan sweeping by, not offering any help, any sanctuary, I turned my head and saw him back there—pacing me. His cloak held tightly to his chest but billowing out at the side.

The veins of my neck were pulsating. I had never had that sensation before. The blood was boiling and I was so hot, ever so hot.

At the entrance of a cemetery, I stopped, dead in my tracks, my mind suddenly telling me that this was what I had come for. Over the weeks, days, months, I had sought continuously more arousing encounters, bigger cocks, more-public fuckings, the erotically exotic. I had heard that Club Fantastic had it—something special, something not of this world. Whispered rumors, secret looks, nodding heads. Hints that All Hallows Eve was the time to be there. Normal sex was boring me. I wanted the exotic. I wanted a jolt.

I was panting in fear, but also in arousal and excitement. Turning, I saw that he had stopped too. He was grinning at me. What had been handsome and dark and alluring was morphing into a skull, a grinning scull. His mouth opened and he laughed. He raised his arms up and out, flinging the cape wide. Underneath he was stark naked. His body was magnificent, a Zeus of men, and his cock was the most monstrous I'd ever seen, in full erection.

I should have been frightened, scared out of my wits. But already, even from that distance, he was controlling me, causing me to calm down, to bow to the inevitable. To want it. I had come to the club because I had wanted it. I did not believe it was possible to reach new heights of satisfaction. But here, now, I believed. I knew, intuitively, that it came at a great cost. And still I wanted it. I could hear as well as feel the pulsating of blood in the veins of my neck now, rushing to my head.

I turned and walked, slowly now, into the cemetery. Down a narrow asphalt trail to the older section of the cemetery, where the tombs were big stone boxes, raised off the ground. I chose one half obscured by the weeping branches of an ancient oak—tomb moss covered, tree draped in Spanish moss.

I turned when I reached the tomb, deliberately, and he stopped twenty yards from me, on the asphalt path, and gave me a sardonic look, cupping his cock in his hand, waiting for me, although I had no idea what he was waiting for—other than that I somehow knew that if I made any move to leave—to escape—at this point, the effort would be fruitless. I knew I already was under his power. I shivered, in delicious fear.

I unzipped my jeans and peeled them off my legs. Then I stripped off my bikini briefs and slipped off my loafers. I wasn't wearing socks. I started to unbutton my shirt.

He was on me in a flash, making guttural animalist noises. He lifted me by my arms in a superhuman grip and slammed the small of my back down on the tomb surface, moving his hands to my thighs, and splitting them apart in the same swift movement that he split my ass with a massive up thrust of his huge cock. I howled in pain, panic, shock, and glorious satisfaction. We were both howling to the wind, in harmony, each getting instant satisfaction. This! This was what I came out to find tonight.

He pistoned me hard and fast and deep, as I writhed under him, never having had anything like this in all of my years of seeking. I was well used and slack, but I was quickly filled and stretched and near to splitting to limits I'd never known before. I spilled my seed quickly and then lay back and moaned as he worked me like a jackhammer on its way to the center of the earth.

He leaned over me and sought my mouth with his and brutally kissed me. I bit his lip and laughed, reveling in the rough sex. But he reared up and scowled at me, his eyes going yellow as a dribble of blood laced down to his chin. And suddenly he notched up his wild man performance. He lashed out at my chest with his fingernails, shredding my shirt and then slashing my chest. He lowered his head on my chest, and I heard the sounds of slurping and felt the heat of his tongue and the sting of the slashings—until I cried out and arched my back as his teeth sliced into the rim of one of my nipples and he began to feed in more earnest.

The pumping of his cock matched the rhythm of his sucking of my nipple, and I found myself moving with the rhythm and feeling more pleasure than pain in the sucking.

He lifted his head and pulled his cock out of my channel, and I turned and scrambled up onto the surface of the tomb, ready to break this unearthly encounter and flee now that I had ejaculated, had satisfied myself—titillated by the experience, but enough was enough.

This was the direction he wanted me to go in, though, and he scrambled up onto the tomb with me, covering me from behind, one of his arms wrapped around my chest and pinning my arms above my head, sinking fingernails into my buttocks, spreading them, and thrusting his cock inside me once more.

I whimpered and pled with him. He laughed and I felt his lips at the side of my neck and then I cried out as his teeth sliced into flesh and he found a vein.

"I want to live," I murmured. "I want to live."

I felt myself going, my eyes closing, a great sigh floating over me.

A blinding light jerked me out of my reverie. It did more than that to my assailant. He was off me in an instant and crouching at the dark side of the tomb, covered with his cape and whining in a high-pitched tone.

A vehicle was going through the cemetery, pointing a strong floodlight here and there. It's light had swept across us, but nothing else was happening, so whoever was driving it wasn't alarmed, hadn't discerned the meaning of the undulating back cape covering my assailant and me.

With a groan I lay back, full length, on the top of the tomb, unable to move, trying to collect my wits and my strength. The light rolled across me again, at which point I must have looked like I was just part of the tomb, a sculptor's depiction of the departed occupant of the chamber below me.

As I gathered myself, a great, heavy sensation of disappointment and want descended on me. It wasn't anything I could have even begun to describe. But it was a feeling of loss, a feeling that I had now experienced it all—that there was no "up" from here, no chance of greater fulfillment, of deeper satisfaction.

I lowered an arm over the side of the tomb, on the dark side. Reaching for it—for him—for whatever. It wasn't something I wanted to do. It scared me witless. It wasn't something I should seek, should have anything to do with, I knew. I should be ecstatic that I had had this brush with the overpowering and had escaped it. But had I? Was it already too late? What was there after this?

My lowered hand felt . . . nothing. I rolled over and looked down. Nothing. No one. Had it even happened? Yes, certainly. My body was ravished, both externally and internally.

I lay there, bringing my breath back to normal—or as close as I could in the circumstances. I tried to pull up gratefulness, relief, adrenalin from a tragedy avoided. Nothing. I felt nothing of that. What I felt was loss.

When I felt that I could walk, I struggled down off the surface of the tomb, leaned down—and almost falling over as I did so—retrieved my jeans and briefs. I was too exhausted, too weak to put them on. Then I walked, struggling to stay erect as I moved—disoriented. I wasn't walking toward the cemetery entrance; I was walking farther into the cemetery, into the older part, into the section where an asphalt path had never been blazed through.

He was stretched out on another tomb, much like the first one. Just laying there, his head propped up on his elbow and the heel of his hand. Watching me with a steady, sardonic look on his face. He was still in magnificent erection.

I walked slowly to the tomb. I was too weak to climb up on it, but he reached down and helped me up.

It was clear he wanted me to give myself to him now. To seek the ultimate fuck. It was no gamble and I'm sure he knew that. I was his now. But for some reason he wanted me to make the sacrifice. He lay back, his enormous erection pointed at the branches of the trees overhead, and I straddled his hips, impaled my channel on his staff, and rode him to a mutual ejaculation. He held, just for me, I was sure, so that we would come together. He was perpetually hard, and I had learned from the previous fucking that he could ejaculate at well and continuously and copiously.

He smiled benignly, his features becoming more human again, supremely handsome and virile, as we both enjoyed this interlude of my willing sacrifice of myself to him. When we had both come, he heightened the experience, slowly taking control again, stretching me out along his body, my back cuddled into his front. He lifted my thigh with one of his hands, and I felt the long, strong, slide inside me of his monster cock. And then he started again inside me. This time different. Just as magnificent and satisfying, but slow, deep, with long strokes that had me gulping each time his bulbous glans kissed the rim of my ass and then gasping as it slid deep inside my intestines. Gulp, gasp. Gulp, gasp.

I felt the bulb of his cock at the back of my throat—or imagined I did. Surely that was just an hallucination, but I swore that I could feel the passage of him through my body, widening my channel, bringing total meaning to full possession.

His other hand cupped my chin and stretched out my neck to his slicing teeth. He fucked me in rhythm to the sucking at my neck to the rhythm of my beating heart to the ebbing away of my very being.

I came, not once but twice—to a passionate cry first, and then to a quiet, weak sigh, as his cock plumbed my depths and his mouth lapped up my life—his cum flowing continuously now, running out of my channel and down the sides of the tomb, hissing as it reached the ground.

I never wanted this to stop. The never-ending fuck, into eternity. Deep, filling, glorious.

"I want to . . ." I murmured, but I couldn't remember what I wanted—beyond the never-ending fuck.

I felt the beating of my heart thumping louder and louder in my ears, the sound rolling over me in waves. So cold; I was so cold. I had been so hot, but now I was cold. I felt his body tense, ready to explode—and then an earth-shattering ejaculation, unlike his previous constant flow. Again and again and again. I was being flooded inside by his boiling cum, burbling up his still-thrusting cock, out of my hole and onto my thighs. I felt . . .

* * * *

I was warm, perhaps warm for the first time since that last All Hallows Eve night. Only now was I fully recovered from the experience on this night one year past. Too warm. I lay in my bed, entwined in the sheets, first covering myself and then pushing them away. It was too warm in the room; the revolving fan not helping—neither in the weak breeze it provided nor in the wonk, wonk, wonk of its revolving blades.

I knew it wasn't the unseasonably hot October New Orleans night that was keeping me awake. It was the longing, the yearning. I had been dissatisfied ever since that night. Yearning. No man had satisfied me. I had searched, returning again and again to the Club Fantastic, even though knowing that it was no use. That it never was that night, the All Hallows Eve night.

I had stopped looking, having to will myself to stop and disgusted with myself and, with time, letting the fear of it overshadow the incredible pleasure. I had tried to forget, throwing myself, with little satisfaction, at any big-cocked man who would possess me. The cock had to be huge or I didn't feel a thing. I had thought the fever of it had melted away from me. I was wrong. I knew now that I was just waiting for All Hallows Eve.

The veins at my neck began to pulsate, the blood yearning to be freed. This sensation had not swept over me for a year. Was that a beckoning murmur I heard behind the wonk, wonk of the overhead fan?

I rose from my bed, prepared myself for what I hoped and yearned for, pulled on a T and a pair of old, tight, worn jeans, and left my room, letting my eyes roam around the walls reflecting back my all-to-brief life, perhaps for the last time.

I walked into the French Quarter as I had so many time before. The streets were aswirl with costumed revelers, just as they had been before. I was looking for the fuck, as I had so many times before. But, no, not like so many times before. Not for the same fuck. Not for any fuck but for that fuck—the ultimate fuck—no matter where it led.

I had offers aplenty as I walked. I sucked a man in a Harlequin costume off in an alley, but refused further servicing as his cock was normal sized no matter how I tried to make it swell. I almost went with a clown, but when he drew out his cock, I knew that would not be enough, would not satisfy.

He was standing under a street light a block beyond the entrance to the club, leaning against the pole, his black cape wrapped tightly around him.

There was no way that, from this distance, I could tell that it was him. But I knew it was.

I would have gone straight to him, knelt to him, begged for what he could give me. But something inside me told me that he would reject me if I did. He had to want me; he had to select me. I knew that without having any reason to know it.

I stood at the door of the club, looking toward the light post. He wasn't looking at me. I don't know if he'd even seen me. I had to believe he knew I was there. He was giving no signal—not even looking at me. I would need to continue as with any other night I needed the fuck. If he wanted me, he would come for me.

I entered the Club Fantastic for the fuck. It was a rough bar. I knew I would find a cock here. Maybe one that would satisfy me.

It was a biker night. There were several possibilities. All eyes had gone to me as I entered, and I knew that several of the men wanted me. I surveyed the room. A big bruiser of a biker was sitting in the shadows in a back corner. I hardly saw him for the black leather and cigarette smoke he was swathed in. He must have been nearly seven feet tall when he stood and was massively muscled. He could break me in two if he wanted too—and perhaps that was what I was seeking.

I pulled my T from over my head and gave him a submissive look from across the room, conveying "fuck me" to him.

In response, he pushed the table that had been in front of where he sat to the side and revealed a freed, erect, hard monster phallus encased in a hand.

I walked slowly toward him, unbuttoning my jeans and allowing the fly to part to show him that I wore nothing else underneath, watching his tight smile turn into a sneer and a promise that he would at least try to take me to the edge that I sought. The conversations in the vicinity ceased and men turned toward where the monster biker sat, lips already being moistened with tongues, already anticipating the punishing fuck that was promising to be on offer. Taking bets in low voices on whether I could sheath it—how long I could take it.

"You sure?" he muttered to me as I approached. "I'll split you into tomorrow."

"Yes, I'm sure," I answered in a hushed tone. All I wanted was someone who could touch me where I'd been touched a year before. Many had tried; none had satisfied—not since last All Hallows Eve.

He reached out with both hands and jerked my jeans down to my knees. In one swift movement, he'd turned me, managing to completely control me just with the grip of his hands on my buttocks cheeks, spreading them and, at the same time, stretching my entrance wide. He swiftly impaled me on his staff—to gasps and groans from the salivating crowd, not just from me—and was raising and slamming me down, pulling me closer to his crotch with each pull. I, indeed was split, and my channel was tested to the limit. Almost to the limit. But not quite to the limit. I screamed for him as he knew I would until the strength and size of him reduced me to a mumbling babble.

Someone in the crowd was counting out the seconds aloud while another, gruffer voice, counted the strokes. Money was still exchanging hands in the gathered crowd, and the decibel level rose in frenzied amazement the longer I endured.

Good. Almost great. Not quite satisfying. The curse of last All Hallows Eve. Nothing short of that was satisfying now. I had been ruined. I might as well have died that night.

The biker was setting a rhythm. He didn't need me to do anything. I relaxed, barely yielding just a bit more to him with each thrust, my attention going elsewhere.

I looked over toward the door to the club and saw that he was standing there. I gave him an imploring, pleading "choose me" look. He returned a level, knowing stare that sent shivers up my spine. And a wicked smile that had me climbing off the biker's cock to general applause and boisterous laughter, pulling up my jeans as I moved toward the door to the street, and walking quickly out of the club and out of the quarter, and up Promenade, toward the cemetery, my pace quickening, my panic growing—but held in check by my remembering want—my blood already running cold.