Meatloaf: The Necro-Vigil
Come on babe, let's see you flaunt that leather and lace" said a bored voice as the camera clicked, the flashbulbs blared and the model continued to contort her buxom body into various sexual poses that emphasised that she was wearing a Sexy Mourner's Costume and very little else. The forty year-old woman was well maintained for her age and was thoroughly enjoying the task of trying to turn the photographer on so much that he needed to quietly jack off in the tiny bathroom of the studio apartment. It wasn't working and this was a problem for Brenda as she only agreed to this photo shoot for the costume company she worked for on the premise that the photographer would bang her blind and provide her with a REAL MAN as her sex partner (she was fed up with today's Modern Man thinking that woman wanted tantric sex all night long with no outcum for a week.) No, Brenda was so desperate. She wanted a man who leaves a stain on your clothes and no detergent gets it wasn't bothered by love- three husbands and an allergy to dental dams taught her that. But she wanted that.
Meatloaf siged to himself as he called for her to split her legs and show off the crotchlessness of the Sexy Mourner Costume. The glare off her lady garden was atrocious. he threw a towel at her.
"Wipe yourself down. The glare off your juice is ruining the photos." Brenda's sex face fell as she dried her girl-hole by humping the rolled-up towel. Still nothing from Meatloaf's trouser monster. What was with this guy? He was a rock god and yet nothing she did made him throw down his equipment and fuck her until they ascended to the heights of Hell... maybe he was secretly gay and all the songs he sang about dark love and innuendos about sexual ablutions were just a cover in a time when only pop stars and Catholic priests where accepted as gay? She adjusted the sexy black veil on her head and jumped up to promptly start pole-dancing with the flashbulb stand.
"That's good, that's good." He clicked away. Brenda made the mistake of looking up as she ground against the pole (not at all for show, she was desperately trying to jack herself off. ) The flash of the bulb blinded her and she stumbled around unable to navigate the pokey little apartment. She crashed into the flash bulb, which knocked over the other one. As one bulb smashed over her head, her endlessly dripping ancient hallway found an exposed wire and felt a small surge of electricity jump through her foot and she screamed as ten months of tortuous celibacy and failed self-BDSM where released from her concussed body. She fell to the floor and lay there motionless. Meatloaf dropped his camera and rushed forward. She was still breathing, but very shallowly. The sudden surge of diarrhea that had manifested in his colon through fear of killing one of his models lessened, but the sudden turd production had to go somewhere, and despite the colonic spasm no longer threatening to force it out of its own accord, it still needed to go somewhere. He only just made it to the bathroom. He almost shit his pants through trying to squeeze the door shut (the gap between the toilet and the turning arch of the door was about half an inch and Meatloaf was a big man.) After the poop surge he realised that his meatstick was standing to attention. He cleaned himself, checked for any skid marks in his underwear (there were none) and squeezed back into the apartment which was difficult as his cock shaft kept getting caught on the edge of the door and he nearly ripped it off several times.
Brenda was sat up looking dazed.
"My god, that was just wow!" She said rubbing herself. Her face cracked into a smile as she saw his dong rising inside his pants.
"About time!" She cried lustily and threw herself at him. The moment her lips touched his hell stick, it fell like a Vesuvian boulder over Pompeii. She looked offended.
"I knew it... you're gay. Never mind." She got up to get her bag. Meatloaf prepared himself for the tough conversation they needed to have.
"No I'm not... I just... well, I prefer El Visage del Muerte." Brenda screwed her face up in Highschool Translation Mode as she tried to recall what 'El" meant. It clicked. Hmm, kink, she liked it! She suddenly dropped to the floor and let her head roll to the side, trying to keep her breath shallow. Out of a tiny gap in her eyelids, she saw his dick rise again and he started to discard his clothing. She felt herself being laid out on the couch and a sheet being laid over her. At her side, she could hear Meatloaf say a prayer for the fallen angels,and may they grant him a pardon because she wasn't really dead. Then the funeral music began...
The truth was, Meatloaf only got his rocks off if the woman appeared dead. He wasn't into actual dead bodies, just the suggestion and appearance of being dead, as it transcended beyond this world and into the dark realm that the man always felt his was on the cusp of stepping into but never quite got there. Rather like a sneeze that never comes or an orgasm that stops dead because he suddenly thought of his dead mother on the kitchen floor. Brenda gathered that she should just keep still and do nothing, which was fine by her. He lay a crucifix on her chest and then flicked holy water over the shroud. Then he threw off the white sheet (Another bulb smashed as the heavy golden crucifix was catapulted across the apartment.) He lowered himself into place and greased up his manflesh with lube (a corpse wouldn't be slick on its own) and started thrusting for all he was worth.
Brenda tried hard not to make a noise but the thrusting to the rhythm of the pipe organ dirge was doing it for her so much and instead she ended managing to stifle her sighs to small gurgles that sounded like she had a punctured lung. This got Meatloaf even harder and he started performing last rights as his dong juice started to build up. He didn't let it go though. He pulled out and whimpered in her ear
"good girls go to heaven, but the bad girls go see which you are." And started lapping at a pebble in her lady garden. She let out a strangled moan as her cum juice shot him in the face. That was it: Meatloaf had approximately one minute to finish himself off before the illusion of death was over. He thrust back into her and they both had a fake post-death-cum-fest. This time, she allowed herself to scream in pleasure . The man got up as his cum squirter started falling and he redressed.
"Right, get the agency to send you again when they have more costumes. Here's your money." He gave her two hundred dollars in a miniature funeral urn and went to remove the film from his point and shoot. Brenda left totally fulfilled and hoping she could get more work that would take her back to him.
Meatloaf collapsed onto the couch. Being a catalogue and exotic photographer was harder than his old music career had ever been. At least then he'd only had to sing about sex rather than do it. (His producer advised him to ignore all the beautiful goth and rock women because he ended up wasting too much time having to explain his sexuality which always ended up in a slap. His makeup artist quit after the fiftieth time she was expected to work wonders on a black cheek.) He'd tried indulging in a groupie sex party with a lot of BDSM fans but they could never grasp the concept of acting dead, they assumed that while one of them was pretending and he was fucking, they were supposed to give him attention. The last and final time this mistake had occurred again, it had been disastrous. Meatloaf had stormed off in embarrassment as:
his dong flopped and shrivelled to a cocktail Weiner
in his grief blundered into a complicated ménage au troi sex swing and had to be cut free by the fire service.
The burly fire guys had laughed at while wielding a pair of car cutters near his cock to cut the cables
The fire guys had compared his dong to a severed garden hose
He had accidentally-on-instinct given last rights to a Jewish woman (the 'corpse') despite her requesting he didn't and now she was terrified that her family would sense the blessing surrounding her and lock her in a Divvic Box thinking she was one of the demons the Catholics always called to in satanic Latin.
He returned to his apartment to find that the toilet had overflowed, and a tidal wave of fermented turd poured out of the bathroom door as he opened it.
He enjoyed it though, despite how hard he had to work to find models and get them to pose just right. His exotic photos were the hardest to shoot. Many women just didn't know how to look like the recently deceased. He needed to find himself someone who could be a model and his partner. Preferably a woman. It wasn't that is wasn't into men, they just looked more alive than women ever did when feigning death (Rigour mortis doesn't cause a stiff, erect cock that is multiple shades of red and purple.) Plus anal sex required a lot of communication to be pleasurable for both people and it was bad enough that most people couldn't help a slight grunt or sigh as it was. No, if men could appear less alive, he'd be fine. But ultimately, only a woman could do it best. And Brenda certainly seemed to just get it. He'd give last rights to her again gladly.
Meatloaf was exhausted and decided to kick back with a beer before he fell asleep.