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Message-ID: <42575asstr$1053594604@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 21 May 2003 16:44:48 -0500
From: Rachael Ross <rache18us@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} My Dead Hands (rache18us@yahoo.com) F/M, Snuff, Revenge, Ghost
Date: Thu, 22 May 2003 05:10:04 -0400
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Disclaimer: This is intended for adults and Hollywood Producers. I
wrote it in an hour, so it's worth about $9.75...Would you like to
supersize that? So don't charge food stamps for people to read it.

I wrote this as a metaphor about the internet. Chatting on irc and
posting in groups such as this. At the time I was a little tired of
the "responsibility" we (all of us) have to entertain others in this
community. Looking back I blame it on PMS. But it is still a good
story...it won a few awards.

Written in Bellingham Wa. on a foggy Sunday morning 2002.

Prelude: 
- Death will not negotiate nor with his kiss infatuate
But rather he'll inebriate - a toxin to exasperate
A little at a time -

-------------------------

My Dead Hands 
fiction by Rachael


That's me, lying there in that green, rust streaked dumpster behind
the Broadway Bar & Grill. If the guy that does my autopsy is any good
he'll find I'm three weeks pregnant. That's not really important, but
I like to remember the details. God is in the details, isn't that what
Einstein said? Or was it God does not play at dice? Either way, they
mean the same thing. 

Why is it always raining on nights like this? That's Detective Fade,
the one without the umbrella. How'd you like to spend your life with a
name like Fade? No wonder he's so mad all the time. He beats his wife.
Her name is Mrs. Fade and she's pregnant too. 

It's so cool being dead, you get to know everything. Not like I
thought it would be at all. We get to make our own rules, unless you
go to hell. But nobody I've met here has ever been to hell, or even
met anyone from hell. So I'm of the opinion hell doesn't really exist.
But I haven't seen Adolf Hitler running here either, so.... Let's just
say you don't really get to know everything, I lied...But you get to
know a lot! 

Where was I? Oh...My dead hands. They're missing. A pretty girl with
no hands and a pair of nylons around her neck. God! I take it back;
she's not so pretty anymore. Like her head got all swelled up, ugly
thick tongue sticking out, eyes popped open. Really bad color too. And
vomit, yuck!! They finally loosened the stockings and all that gross
stuff started coming out! Oh well, I guess death is never as pretty as
we imagine. Reality bites. 

Yeah, yeah, I know....This is boring. We see it on TV every night and
twice on Mondays. Nothing new here. You want to know how I died right?
Well, not how exactly like the mechanics. You want to know if I was
getting off on it. If my body was screaming in orgasmic pleasure while
my mind was screaming with terror. Did I cum while my killer was
raping me? Did I stare into his eyes while he choked me, twisting the
silky soft nylon around my delicate neck? What was my body doing when
he was jamming his erection as far as possible inside my body, banging
my head down on the cold wet pavement in time with his animal thrusts?
Did I claw his face? Did I grip his strong wrists and try to pull his
hands away, loosening the knot around my throat? Or did I lie there,
feeling his cock ripping into my cunt, tearing through my flesh, my
life-giving womb bruised and battered and torn by his assault. Did I
imagine a mother? Cradling me, singing to me, keeping me safe? Or my
father whipping me, beating me and calling me a slut, a whore who
asked for this, who deserved this. 

Hmmm...No, I'm not going to talk about any of that. 

Want to know what that guy is doing with my hands? He picked me
because of my manicure. What a loser! I have so many other qualities.
I'm intelligent, witty, fairly attractive, friendly, interesting,
and...Oh yeah, dead. I'm not any of those things anymore. But I was!
And this guy wants me because I have perfect nails? What a joke. Who
says life doesn't have a sense of humor? 

Anyway, right now he's at home. His wife is in the kitchen, preparing
dinner for him and his boys. Two sons, 8 and 11....They're cute. He's
in the den, his little home office where he works for an insurance
company. Life insurance, oh this is just too funny! He does a little
day trading, plays fantasy baseball, surfs porn sites, and oh... Look
at this, chats on irc. I wonder if we've talked, that would be neat to
know. 

But right now he's not doing any of those things. He locked the door,
pulled the blinds. He's got his pants down, around his ankles and his
cock is long and hard. I guess raping me during my lunch hour wasn't
that good for him, or he has a monster sex drive - Look at that thing!
But what is it with people when they're alone? I mean he looks
ridiculous! Sprawled on that old sofa with his pants down. Grinning
like a maniac while he pumps his fist up and down in little short
strokes. He really should be locked up! I bet his wife never saw him
like this. 

My dead hands are on his chest. Palms down, my long stiffening fingers
slightly curled so they look like big pale spiders with crimson boots.
But they don't look like that to him. To him they are hands, beautiful
to look at, marvelous to touch. Magical things which transport him
back...back...To where? To Mommy? I wonder. I guess we'll never really
know. But he's not thinking about me, I know that. He's thinking of
someone else, who's touch...Or maybe denial of tenderness...brought
him pleasure, or pain, or guilt, or joy. He's going to cum soon, the
wetness is spilling out of his erection; my dead hands are bouncing,
rocking, rolling on his heaving chest. 

He takes one of my dead hands and moves it to his throat. He's trying
to curl my fingers around so it looks like it's choking him. He molds
the stiff joints so that it clasps his neck. He does the same with the
other hand so that they are thumb to thumb, pressed loosely around his
throat; just hanging there, not tight enough to really choke him of
course. Not like he wants. I can feel his need filling the room. I can
see it like a deep red mist, billowing clouds of guilty desire
obscuring all reason. His hands are down, one on his swollen shaft,
the other cupping his balls, squeezing them while he masturbates. 

I look down at my ethereal form. I'm different somehow, changing back
to what I was - the girl in the dumpster. I'm a ghost of his creation,
did he summon me? I was so sure he had forgotten me, I was useless to
him. I had something he wanted and he killed me so he could steal it.
He killed me for my hands...My hands. I look at my arms, ending
abruptly in painless stumps. The flesh is gone, but the image remains.
I think I can feel again. Isn't that strange? I could almost swear I
feel something warm, alive....The fire of existence. It's beneath my
fingers, my palms I... 

Oh, yes....I'm there. I understand, do you? I didn't know it would end
this way, not when I started telling you this. When I was Tangerine.
He's so close now, in every meaning of the word. His orgasm is
compelling him to ignore his senses, let his imagination run free.
Shutting out everything but the fevered images flashing through his
mind as his hand moves. He doesn't notice me, my pale form cutting
through the mist. Breathing his emotions, filling my soul with it. The
energy fills me, it flows through me. I move my arms closer;
reaching... reaching and then I have my hands. I straddle him, his
hard cock pressing up, between my legs. His hand stroking into me, a
sensation peculiar to us both as his movement brings flesh into
contact with death. He's fucking a ghost, a specter that did not exist
until he imagined it. Until he created it. Until he delivered himself
into my dead hands. 

I can feel my fingers moving, my body complete once again. I flex them
slightly, the only material things I possess. Ghostly arms ending in
dead cold flesh, but they are mine again. They obey my will. He's
moaning now, gasping as he hunches his flying fingers. I squeeze, as
hard as I can, pressing my thumbs against his windpipe. I watch his
eyes fly open in shocked surprise, his ejaculate sprays out, flying
through my dead insubstantial womb and landing on his stomach. I dig
my fingers into his skin, feeding off his energy. He wants this. More
than I, he desires this. It's why he made me, why he brought me. I
feel his windpipe, his Adam's apple bobbing and his wet, slippery
hands covered with semen grab at my wrists. They try to pry my fingers
away. But I'm too strong. Everything is clear to me now. One thing
left unfinished. 

I feel his esophagus crack and then the cartilage snaps, his throat
crushed by my dead hands. His cock is still stiff, his body heaving,
his dying breath trapped inside forever. His eyes are wide open,
staring and somehow focusing into mine. He sees me finally, at last.
He looks frightened, surprised and his arms go limp, his hands falling
to his sides, leaving my dead hands wrapped around his lifeless neck.
I get off him, I'm being pulled away...I don't have much time, I'm
sorry. He's gone already, gone to hell or gone to heaven and I...I
don't know where I'm going now...someplace...else 

the end
rache18us@yahoo.com 

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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