Page 1 of Exposed
EXPOSED
The winter winds whip across the top edge of the grave, brushing my forehead. I drop my cock and quickly tie my gray hair into a low ponytail. My palm runs over my length while my other hand rubs the dirt walls; soil sprinkles the healing wound near the urethra, and I relish in it, knowing soon, she’ll be here too.
The coffin beneath me creaks like an old house, irritated by my hastiness, and my upper lip curls. Itisannoying, isn’t it? There is no reason to hurry this painful self pleasure, and yet my impatience controls me.Sheis almost in my grasp.
And she may be just as impatient as I am.
As I resume my self care, I pull out my device, swipe to the video, and hit play. On the screen, a woman with freshly dyed blonde hair sits on her haunches, her shoulders curled inward. Her beaded dark eyes, filled with the glossy sheen of longing, are on the cameraman. She parts her lips, unconsciously inviting him in. Her bottom lip trembles.
Please piss on me,she whispers.
The recording shows the first sprays of yellow liquid crossing the woman’s face. I squeeze the head of my cockhard and suck in through my nostrils. The yellow arc grows, gracing her lips like a water fountain, and though the cunt twists in revulsion, I’ve seen cases like hers before; she’s only acting like this because she knows it’s how sheshouldfeel and act. In reality, she’s ready. Needy.Beggingfor him to use her in any way he sees fit. I bet the cunt smelled like an unkempt barn by the time they were done recording the video.
I jerk my cock, the friction of skin against skin a pleasant tune accompanying the slut’s subtle groan. Patches of white scar tissue spot my long length, with the thickest callus on top of the head, right near the urethra, sitting opposite of my latest self-inflicted wound. The gash is still fresh, red inflammation around the border, with the open crater in the middle in shades of damp cream and pink. Sometimes, a harsh, pungent scent similar to rotting meat drifts from the laceration, especially during masturbation, but in the middle of a cemetery, the earth’s perfume dominates the air.
The camera pulls back, and the slut’s knees part; clear liquid drips from her cunt. Saliva increases in my mouth, and my cock grows to a full erection, the skin pulled taut, pain shooting to my temples.
Of course, she’s aroused. She’s a nasty little cunt.
At twenty-five, the woman in the video, Violet, has only just begun her sexual awakening. Her first boyfriend was quite sexually average, and her current boyfriend—though willing to perform strange acts for video submissions to a doctor—is withheld. Thus, her future exploration will be completely under my care.
Do you like it?Her boyfriend asks in a perfunctory tone.Do you want more?
She shivers. Goosebumps crawl over her flesh.Yes,she whines.Please. More.
I zoom in on her lips, and there, right as her boyfriend expels the final squirts of his stream, Violet opens her mouth, letting the smallest drop of his urine tease her tongue. My jaw drops. Pleasure pushes through the pain in my cock as I continue to stroke myself. Desire is on her periphery, waiting to be called out; she can’t hide herself completely. And soon, I will completely unleash her inner needs.
I lean my back against the dirt wall and dig my nails into the skin of my length, never stopping my repeated jerking. More dirt falls around me. On the video, Violet grabs her tit through her piss-soaked clothes; her lips twist in disapproval while her hips writhe. Pain ricochets through me the closer I get to orgasm. The nerve endings cinch like a noose around my neck, and the sharp fire of desperation licks my throat as I keep my eyes on Violet. Finally, she voluntarily swallows a small amount of his urine.
No one told her to. The cunt simply wanted it.
My cum splatters out. White semen, mixed with the drops of blood from the freshest wound, drench the phone’s screen. Underneath the liquid, the camera zooms in on Violet as she licks her lips. I smirk to myself. The little cunt is thirsty for more.
I sigh, then take a handkerchief out of my lab coat pocket. This orgasm is lighter than usual, and I suppose that’s appropriate. I’ve pleasured myself to that same video hundreds of times since I first received it, and after waiting for such a long time to have her finally under mycommand, I’m eager toenjoyher unhinged inner freak for myself.
As I clean the phone, the fabric slides against the screen. I wipe my hand and cock with the handkerchief as well. Traces of blood dampen the fabric. I huff; blood stains are a constant issue with my interests and line of work. I don’t bother fixing any of the handkerchiefs, but I do have an endless amount of fresh stark-white lab coats at my disposal. I enjoy having a professional appearance.
Once my trousers are zipped and my device and handkerchief are stowed, I climb out of the six-foot deep hole. I’m an older man; however, my vitality is present, even climbing out of a grave. It helps to stay fit in my profession.
Graffiti is sprayed over the closest grave marker, and I squint at the lettering. It’s faded now.
A balding man with watery blue eyes clears his throat. “Dr. Alick Ambrose,” he says in a scratchy voice.
His clammy hands reach to shake mine. He’s younger than me by a decade, perhaps more, but he’s a pathetic little man, always eager to find a new way to get on my good side.
He gives me a firm handshake; my grip stays limp. A sneer curls my lips. Begging to shake my hand as soon as I’ve climbed out of a grave may be one of the most desperate things he’s done. He’s undeserving of true respect.
“Like I said, sir, I have no problem doing this work,” he urges.
He continues rambling; I ignore him. I keep my lips narrow. Part of keeping a tight rein on this facility and others within the region is letting the idiot and others likehim babble to completion. That way they think they’ve been heard,andthey have ample opportunity to spill accidental secrets.
“Oh!” He startles mid-sentence. “You’re already finished.”
In the hole down below us, the surfaces of the grave are perfectly lined as if cut by machinery, save for the divots from where I brushed or leaned against the wall. A bucket of murky water and a small flat shovel lay in the coffin; tools I used to complete the process. There are some tasks that must be done by a trusted expert, and there are other tasks in which I only trust myself. Digging up a coffin and smoothing the dirt walls around it were thingsI aloneneeded to do.
It’s all for my sweet one.
“I assume you can fix that,” I say, nodding toward the divots in grave walls. “And you’ll collect the tools.”
