4 - Mr. Crawley

Leroy shifted his legs to lean down and pick up a candle. In the dark, it played across the pale patch of skin that cut across one cheek and the round, flat nose. His mouth broke into a bright smile. His voice, when he spoke, was deep and melodious.

"In this world, people will do almost anything for fame and fortune—and in the age of the internet, there is always an audience for someone willing to go further than others. Some will say there is no such thing as too far—but then there is the story of...

MR. CRAWLEY

The nightvision camera gave a ghoulish green gleam to the pale, soft tits. The naked woman lay on the coroner's slab, the sheet pulled down to reveal the soft skin, unmarked by injury or disease, the dark hair spilled out behind her. Eyes stared sightlessly open, the white cataracts over them filmy and clear.

"This is Mr. Crawley, coming to you live from the Dagon's Hollow morgue...we get a sweet one in, a real pretty number. Brain tumor, if you believe it. What a waste! This slut could have soaked up a lot of semen. Too late now...for anyone else! But for me, viewers? Well, it's time to crack open a cold one!"

James Alexander Crawley grimaced as he watched the video play. The stats were only okay for this one. The subscriber's fees barely paid for the model who'd agreed to lay there as he jerked over her tits. The first time they'd started filming, she had sneezed on his cock, and ruined the take.

Corpsefuckers was the latest in Crawley's attempts to make enough money to move out of his mother's home. Community college, shifts at the morgue, and occasional cleaning jobs for the DHPD weren't going to get him his own apartment, but a seven-inch dick and a handheld camera might, with the right spin.

The problem was, it was all so fake. Soft college girls willing to strip for a hundred bucks snuck into the morgue wasn't enough of a narrative. He needed something else. Something more authentic. A narrative that could push Corpsefuckers into the rarified territory of getting him away from...

"Jimmy? Are you looking at dirty videos in there?" his mother broke in, knocking loudly on the door to the bathroom. "I need my heart pills."

"No, ma!" he called back. Swiftly, Crawley shut down the video, and flushed the empty toilet.

The opportunity came with a midnight phone call for the last responders.

Emergency medical technicians were generally first on the scene when 911 was called, swiftly followed by the police or fire department, as necessary. Those were your first responders. Later came crime scene photographers and forensics, which in Dagon's Hollow was Mrs. Hathaway and her intern, and then a detective. Maybe the mayor, if the **** was sufficient to attract decent press attention. Crawley came last, for corpse disposal. Nothing sexy about that, just pile all the bits and pieces in the black bag and get it back to the morgue. The sight clean-up would come later, after everything was properly documented and any remaining trace evidence could be safely washed away.

Thing is, no one would watch Crawley when he came through with the bleach. No one would see him scrape at the smear of dried blood on the wall where the skull had cracked and the young woman who had pissed off her boyfriend had slumped down to the ground, never to breathe again. And no one, except his paying customers, would see Mr. Crawley jerk his big dick onto the brown smear with frantic, breathless excitement as he described the scene of **** to them in the low, sepulchral voice he had put together for just this purpose.

Thick gobs of yellow-white spunk, pent up from days of being unable to jerk it at home, hit the wall with surprising ****. The camera caught the whole thing as the thick seed oozed over stray hairs and bits of meat that had been embedded in the hard cement Crawley would have to powerwash later. For now, he was in porn-auteur mode, trying to catch that fantastic evidence of genuine **** on camera.

That earned a spike in subscribers. That was what they wanted. Something real. Nasty. Forbidden.

Except cleanup jobs didn't happen every day, or every week. It could be months before Crawley was called again. Which is why, after a late-night class in Criminology, Crawley found himself slipping into the Eastside Cemetery. Kids in Dagon's Hollow had dared each other to brave the graves for years, and at Halloween and New Years the HDPD kept a couple uniforms on patrol, to keep the teenagers from fucking on the graves. This early in October, however, there weren't likely to be any amorous goths making out on the cold grass, and there hadn't been any funerals more recent than the young woman whose lifeblood he'd busted his nut into.

Crawley's target wasn't the newer graves. It was the crypts, built into a series of small artificial hillocks against the far part of the cemetery. The rusty chain gave way to the bolt-cutters, the brown metal falling apart like dried cheese, though the snap as it fell made Crawley freeze. Yet nothing moved. Tall grasses waved in the lots that hadn't been mown recently. The moon was nearly full, and the pale light shown off the tombstones.

The door opened. A dry smell hit him, like the basement of his mother's house. He stepped inside swiftly, and closed the door, leaving it open only a crack. The nightvision on the camera helped him find the right stone box. With a crowbar, he lifted and slid the lid aside.

There was not much left of Martha Gamwell (1856-1875). Dry skin over brittle bones. The shells of insects littered the bottom of the casket. Crawley held his breath as he used a pair of scissors to cut away the pink dress, from her neck all the way down to her crotch.

James stared for a moment at the dried crease that had been a soft, warm, welcoming cunt in life. Now shriveled and shrunken into itself, the hip-bones clearly visible through the mummified skin.

She was perfect.

He was hard before he got his pants off. Heart hammering in his chest as he set up the camera.

Then...action.

Mr. Crawley kept up a constant stream of patter, his voice echoing oddly in the tomb. He could hardly see the dark, small mounds that had once been tits. His eyes focused on the slive of moonlight that fell across the sunken face, the nose almost gone, the eyes dark hollows, the lips peeled back to show small teeth...and then that slit. That dead cunny that had never known a cock in life, and now...

James couldn't say later what made him do it. What made him thrust his cock against that leathery snatch. To feel, for a moment, before the dried ruin gave way, the soft dead hairs of her pubes, filthy with the hulls of ancient lice. His hips rose and fell and it was luck more than design that he came as he pulled out, leaving a trail of thick, glistening pearls on the torn dark skin. The camera caught it all.

As he slipped out of the crypt, James felt oddly numb. No guilt, no disgust, no recrimination. It was the kind of clear-minded emptiness and ache in his balls that he had experienced after his first ejaculation. It was like losing his virginity all over again. Yet it was different, too. A dark gulf had opened in his soul. He had done the unspeakable deed, and having done it once, he felt the terrible potential of what else he could do now. After all, what was there to hold him back, if he was bold and careful?

The house was quiet when James slipped in the backdoor. Too quiet. He kept the lights off as he moved through the kitchen, navigating by the moonlight through the windows...and that was when his foot touched hit the soft mass that made him trip and fall.

His mother's heart pills had spilled across the kitchen floor. Margot Crawley lay where she had fallen, eyes closed. Skin waxy and pale in a way that James knew too well. His heart leaped into his throat as he reached for her neck. **** to find a pulse.

Nothing.

His hand fell to her bathrobe. She was wet. Straight from the shower. Suddenly breathless as he pulled the robe away, to show one saggy white tit, the dark nipple soft. The same nipple he had sucked as a baby.

Mr. Crawley's prick ached with sudden hardness. He shook, mind racing with a nameless, blasphemous need.

He almost forgot to go to his room and fetch a fresh battery and memory card for the camera.

Leroy blew out the candle. A single spark of its wick lingered for a moment, red and vibrant, before it too vanished, and he set it down at his feet.