90 - Thirteenth Tale of the Japanese Cemetery - The Corpse Candle

Miu picked up the furthest candle from the dark. There weren't many left now. Everyone sat wrapped in shadow.

"There was a story, that young women would tell each other," she said. "That a young bride who died a virgin would become a ghost, and prey on the bridegroom and his family until satisfied. To prevent this, at the funeral the bride would be presented with a waxen effigy of her husband's penis, made into a candle, which was burned until it melted away. Tonight, I will tell you about

THE CORPSE CANDLE

"Grandmother—I really don't think—" Iemon began, as he stared at the wooden mold with the pale white wax.

"It is tradition," the old woman insisted, bitterly. "You could not satisfy Ichigo in life, you must at least satisfy her in ****."

The words were an accusation. Iemon sighed at his grandmother-in-law. She was all the family Ichigo had left, and was going to move in with them. The suddenness of his wife's **** had been a blow to them both, a destruction of all their future plans. An embolism, the doctor had said sadly. Almost instantaneous, he assured them both.

In the privacy of a small closet, Iemon thought of Ichigo. Of the body he had hoped to know and touch and taste. They had played around a little—who hadn't?—and no one would have cared if they had sex before marriage. Yet it hadn't happened. Maybe their families had been in America too long, and absorbed the local ideas about virginity. Or maybe Iemon's shyness had won out.

He placed the mold on a small shelf, laid his hard prick onto it, and then placed the other half atop it. There was a moment of cold, clammy pressure, and Iemon fought the urge to move his hips. Wondering if this was what it would have been like, if he and Ichigo had gone on all the way.

Then with a sigh, he lifted the mould, the impression of his cock now contained in two parts. Tucking his hardon away, he left the closet and presented the mould to the priestess. Iemon and his grandmother bowed to her, and left.

The pale autumn sunlight made the old woman stagger. Iemon was immediately at her elbow, steadying her.

"Grandmother," he said softly. "I wish you would reconsider. Your room is still ready. Ichigo would have wanted it."

The old woman looked sad, but shook her head.

"You are young. Perhaps you will remarry one day. You don't need an old woman taking up space, chasing off potential wives."

The way she said it was more hurtful than the words themselves. As if Iemon was already betraying his wife's memory.

Two days later, they returned to the shrine to find the priestess agitated.

"There was an error with the candle. You will need to make another mold."

Iemon frowned, but nodded, took the wooden mold with the wax, and returned to the closet. Once again, he tried to think of Ichigo's body. He had played with her small breasts, felt the warmth of her kisses. His cock responded, harder than ever as he thought of that plump little ass, the unspoken promise of their married life.

The mold was made. Handed to the priestess.

Two days later, they repeated their visit. The priestess was more agitated. The grandmother stared at Iemon accusingly, as if this was his fault.

"I have tried to cast the corpse candle three times," the priestess said. "For the first mold, each one crumbled, and the mold itself became useless. The second time, I took special care. The result was perfect, but the wick would not light."

The grandmother stiffened.

"Ichigo's ghost?" she whispered.

"I believe that difficulty arises from Ichigo's...unusual situation," she said.

Iemon's face burned at the implication.

"What can we do?" Grandmother asked.

The priestess inclined her head. She brought forth a small wooden box, and handed it to Iemon.

"I believe her spirit is unsatisfied. You, Iemon, must satisfy her. Then, perhaps, the corpse candle will be efficacious."

He opened the box and stared at the sleek blue shape within. Realized immediately what it must be.

"How?" he asked.

The priestess sighed. "I suspected, because of her condition. A mold was made."

Iemon bowed deeply. Grandmother clutched his arm, as they exited the shrine. There were tears in her eyes as she reached her car.

"You will. Won't you?" she whispered.

Iemon nodded. "Of course, grandmother. For her."

In the empty house where they were going to live together, Iemon pulled off his tie and poured a finger of bourbon into a glass. His eyes lingered on the photographs on the wall. The photos from the wedding hadn't come back yet. There were pictures of her in the park. Dressed in a pink kimono. In her office dress, the one she had bought when she began dressing as a woman. Then before, the slow slideshow of images that traced her transition, back to when they first met, two grubby-faced young men who even then, shared a secret.

The preparations took very little time. He placed the last photo of her—a private photo, just for the two of them—on the bedside table. She was naked, her long dark hair streaming back, the small budding breasts so delicate, the look on her face so intensely serious. One hand held, rather than covered, her cock.

It was the same size and shape as the small blue dildo, roughly case in silicone, that the priestess had given him. A dab of lube. A sudden tightness in his chest. Iemon bit his lip as he played the tip against his asshole. They had talked about her transition. Top surgery, bottom surgery. His insurance would help pay for it. Yet he had never imagined, until now, that maybe Ichigo had wanted to top, all along.

He thought of her. The rest was easy.

The small dildo pressed against him. He fought the sudden urge to clench up against his wife's cock. It took a moment, and then it was in him, just the tip, and Iemon shuddered as though a hot breath brushed his ear.

In the shrine, the flame of the corpse candle before Ichigo's photo flared to life. The white wax began to melt. The priestess sighed in relief, bent her head, and began to chant a prayer.

The candle was almost gone now. It wasn't horror that hung over the listeners, but a kind of mournful sadness as their thoughts drifted to a soul lost and alone, with unfinished business that could only be satisfied by a warm, eager, willing hole. How many unquiet spirits might wander, unsatisfied, because they never raised their voices while alive to utter their inmost desire?

The flame sputtered and died.