I think I was aware that something had gone wrong but an instant's blank allowed me to convince myself that some remnant of early passion had returned. I redoubled my efforts with delight. What began as normal routine... me astride and doing all the work... he tied spread-eagled with silk scarves, became an adventure of unaccustomed grunts and bucks. His movement had never been as good as in these short moments and by the time his tongue protruded I was enjoying myself far too much to avoid the brink, then slide, of a rather wonderful orgasm.

Until I collapsed, sweating on top of him... I avoided admitting that I felt no heartbeat. After a short and horrified gag I began to feel rather pleased. The bastard had given me a good ride for once, with a greater generosity of spirit than he ever exercised willingly. In fact, I remember thinking rather gleefully that, as I had rather grown to hate him... I was well pleased with his death and the fact that I had probably caused it.

I slid off, kneeled beside him and studied him with interest, deciding that I rather liked him this way...especially as his prick, an almost unbelievably thick wedge, stood purple in a graceful arch proud from his belly. "Eveready!" I giggled. I would put batteries in his dick... a vibrator.

Feeling that my inappropriate humor may be a little hysterical I trailed to the shower, running the spray hot and examining my feelings. No, I definitely felt pleased and somewhat excited. Fond thoughts arose and I tiptoed to the door... ready for the disappointment he may have rallied, be grizzling for release. Delightfully he remained still.

Suddenly hungry I skipped through the bedroom. I wagged my finger playfully, "You stay here, dear, you hear!" I laughed all the way down the stairs, filled a plate with cold chicken and salads and returned. I ate sitting cross-legged beside him, studying his body. His tongue was disconcerting, swollen and purple. Like his dick.

I thought about this while I gnawed a chicken leg and found I was sliding it slowly on my lips. The cold felt good. I wondered if he would get cold...I wondered how long he would last. I wondered, eyeing his prick, if it would remain erect. My head slid a little, trying to remember anatomy, biology, anything.

I found I had lowered the drumstick and was rubbing it thoughtfully along my thigh, then slit. It felt good, cold and fleshy... like a corpse? Well, he would not mind surely. I straddled him rubbing against his shaft. It did not feel the same, more like rubber... no pulse or shift... a dildo. Yes a dildo. Not terribly excited I experimentally thrust on it and it slid in smoothly.

I poked his chest. The dark curling hair felt right and sprang cutely against my fingers but the flesh dented, a small dip which bounced back slowly. I began to feel really comfortable. I bore down on him with little circling movements, at my leisure. He usually demanded I move differently, to please him. I pleased myself now, surprised that his generously proportioned member could so quickly afford me cuntal joy... and at my pace, not his.

Suddenly I felt a great love overlay the lust. One thing I denied him in life I could give him in death...a love gift and with trembling I slipped off and turned...lowering myself on his bulging tongue. It reminded me of the fat ox tongues hefted by the butcher, and it rolled solidly across my perking clitoris. "Oh eat me!" I breathed and plumped solidly on his mouth.

The tongue sprang firmly along my slit. I parted my labia further with a shaking hand and with slightly sick excitement realized that I was drenching my fingers, I had never poured so wet. His tongue was shining with benedictory juices. I pulled it to me; it baulked and I forced it firmly, roundly bundling in my nook. At that stalled moment I came, pulsing firmly I could feel the rhythm clench its swollenness. The prick stared at me in one-eyed approval.

I loved him so much in those gasping moments I thought I might pass with him into corpse-peace.

Afterwards I cleaned him. Gently wiping his tongue with a warm flannel, cooing soft reassurances as I stroked his prick of my greases.

I dozed in the big wing chair, waking protective. I realized, as the heat wore off the day that he would not last long and hurriedly enjoyed his stiffening edges in using abandonment, thanking him with grateful sobs and caresses.

Much later I grew afraid, anxious as the hours passed, seeking signs of deterioration, smells, putrification. I scoured his private den, his library, but found no information. With huge regret I returned with the only solution to maintaining him, for me... a sharp knife.

I broiled his tongue, adding marjoram and a little red wine to the stock. His prick and balls I diced, mixed with feta and spinach and baked, wrapped in filo pastry. At dawn I packed the small wicker hamper with crispy rolls and a bottle of chilled Chablis and I went to White Sands to picnic.

I never wasted a crumb... I was careful to absorb all of him as I had never been allowed to do while he lived.

END