I had been dead three years when I pretended not to notice the man drop a pill into my white wine, but that didn’t stop him from trying. It hadn’t stopped the other six hundred and sixty five men who were intent on courting me in this bizarre and ungentlemanly manner and it wouldn’t stop the next man or the next. My afterlife was an endless cycle of man after man. The same dirty tricks, the same wretched result. It was fascinating how repetitive it all was. There was almost nothing to keep me going anymore. Almost….
Three years ago I had gone to a college party at one of the local frat houses and some bastard killed me by putting something nasty in the wine cooler. I hovered over myself watching helplessly as he ravished my lifeless body.
I felt light-headed and only semiconscious, oddly disconnected to what was going on beneath me. I thought at first that the whole experience was some sort of drug-induced hallucination and I felt free to just relax and wait for it to stop.
My rapist pumped in and out of me furiously as though desperate or angry, but I couldn’t tell for sure whether he was enjoying it or not. It looked so pathetic, like masturbating with an inflatable doll. There was no romance, no passion, no adventure. I remember thinking that if I was going to go through the effort of raping somebody, I would have made it more interesting.
As timed passed and the hallucination didn’t stop, I began to worry. Three more men raped me before they noticed something wasn’t quite right. It was when the fucking stopped that I finally realized that I was dead. The pain was never going to end. I was never going to be able to return to the life I had once had. I would never get to attend my new classes. I would never be able to be part of my family’s life again. I was never going to grow old and die. I was already dead.
I went to my own funeral. My mother tried to justify my death by telling herself and the other mourners that I had had no business drinking at my age. I was only 18, too young to go to frat parties, too young to be dead.
I sat in the back row crying over myself, but I couldn’t justify my death the way my mother had. I noticed a really cute guy get up and walk out to go to the bathroom. I thought for half a second about following him and mentally kicked myself. But then I remembered that I was dead and decided, what the hell. So I walked through the wall into the men’s bathroom and saw him standing at the urinal peeing. He had a nice cock and I ogled it for a while until I thought to myself: why not touch it? I reached a finger forward and it passed right through it. The guy flinched and nearly missed the urinal. Next, I thought I’d really like to lick it. So I bent forward and touched my tongue to his cock. It of course passed through as well but, it caused him to moan and writhe, and as I continued to lick it, his cock stiffened and he squirted cum into the urinal.
I giggled to myself and left the room.
After that first adventure, I decided to have more fun. I’d find couples having sex and lick the man’s dick so he’d cum too early. Once, I walked into a monastery and accosted the monks in their sleep. I found one fellow who was so cute I decided that I really wanted to fuck him. I took off my party clothes and squatted down over his dick. I pumped up and down for several minutes. He came quickly, shooting his cum through me, but the whole thing didn’t do very much for me. No body, no orgasms. Bummer.
One day I was in a bar pleasuring a man who was masturbating when I saw a man slip something into his date’s drink. I felt the world spin around me. I felt as though I was filled with fire. I hated him. I hated him more than I could ever remember hating anything. I sucked more furiously on the cock I was haunting and the man attached to it began to moan and writhe, but I couldn’t focus on him, not when the guy at the bar was trying to make his move on an innocent woman. I couldn’t let him have his way. I had to stop him. I wanted to smash his brains in. I wanted to cut off his balls, fry them. I wanted to hurt him so badly he’d never be able to touch another woman again.
I promised myself that I would be strong. That I wouldn’t just sit under a table fucking someone while there was real evil in the room.
The man I was pleasuring gasped and shot cum into my mouth. It tasted good but bitter as a swallowed it. I gasped and choked, the sensation was so unexpected. I hadn’t had taste buds in months! The man looked down at me and smiled broadly and I blushed. The other customers were pointing and laughing or making accusations. The man at the bar with the bills slapped his thigh and laughed hysterically. I didn’t know what to do. The bartender came over and tried to politely escort me outside, but as he reached out to me I pushed him and he fell flat on his back and I rushed past him to the bar.
“Hi, sweetheart,” The bastard said as I approached him.
“Asshole,” I screamed, grabbing him by the throat and lifting him of his bar stool. There was a clash as the other customers tried to scurry out of the bar. “I ought to kill you for what you intended to do to that woman. But since I’m such a nice young lady, I think I’m going to teach you a lesson instead.” The man whimpered and I smiled. “Take off your pants.” A moment passed, and he didn’t move. “Take off your pants.” I repeated shaking him by the throat, and he scrambled to take his pants off.
“Bartender. Heat me up some bread sticks,” I said, turning to stop the man from grabbing me from behind.
“Yes, Ma’am,” He said quickly rushing behind the counter. The man I was holding began to gasp and struggle. Oxygen, right, I’d almost forgotten. I threw him to the floor and held him down with the spiked heel of my shoe.
“Bartender!” I yelled over my shoulder. “I’m not getting any younger over here!” I snickered to myself. The bartender rushed forward with a basket of hot bread sticks. They were the cheap hard kind they always sell in bars, and I grabbed a handful. They were so hot they burnt my hand, but the pain felt good after the hollowness of oblivion. With a quick motion I thrust the handful into the ass of my victim, enjoying the sound of him crying out as his flesh was penetrated. I maneuvered the food inside of him.
“How do you like being raped?” I asked, but off course he didn’t answer. “If I ever so much as see you look at a woman the wrong way again, I’ll have your balls for breakfast.” I kicked him and then I ran.
Something in me had diminished when I stepped away from him and I felt like a little girl hiding from the boogieman. The man I came in with was sitting at the table still and looked at me lovingly and rubbing his cock as I flew past him. I guess he has a fetish for S&M.
That night, I grabbed the nearest man, took him to a motel room and fucked him fast and furiously. I had orgasm after orgasm as I rode him, pumping as though I’d never get the chance again. And heaven knows, I might not have.
From that time on, I became obsessed with catching rapists. I robbed an S&M shop and obtained a set of kinky costumes, handcuffs, and an arsenal of dildos. I walked the streets at night hoping to be accosted then I’d have my way with the bastard, tie him and flog him, and when I’ve had enough, I’d stick a dildo up his ass and leave him in front of a police station.
My real passion, though, was the date rapist. The subtle bastard like the one who killed me. They were surprisingly abundant, and I always had prey to hunt.
…I slowly brought my drink to my lips as man number 666 watched intently. He ought not to look, it might seem suspicious. But he’s obviously still inexperienced. I slowly drinking the wine down to the last drop and let him lead me upstairs to one of the bedrooms. I watch as he undresses me. I fell like a rag doll. Lifeless. But when the moment comes, I pounce. I throw myself over him, covering his mouth with one hand and pinning his throat down with my elbow.
“Lick my pussy!” I command him.
And he does…