Grandma Fucker

I was standing above my grandmother’s coffin, looking down at her body. She was quite clearly dead, and had been dead for quite a while. I felt the twinges of arousal. I cracked my knuckles, and jolted upright in bed.

Jesus Christ, I thought. What the fuck is wrong with you? The same twisted desires had been with me for months, ever since Grandma had died. She’d had a stroke, and had spent two years living a life I’d never want to live – lying on a hospital bed, barely moving, groaning incomprehensibly into a nurse’s ear, settling sadly into incontinence and finally succumbing to a dozen different diseases. It was far more tragic when she had the stroke than when she died, I always thought.

And now, she was at the forefront of my mind. Fuck conventional fantasies, I thought, as I took out my penis and started masturbating. A tear of precum rolled from my japseye. “Granny…” I moaned.

Fuck wanking, I thought mid-fantasy. Fuck normality and fuck wanking. I wiped myself up and got dressed. The light of the moon illuminated my room with an eerie pale, casting foreboding shadows everywhere.

Stretching, I stumbled towards the door, grabbing my crowbar and throwing it into my bag. This should come in useful, I thought. I took a switchblade, too, purely for self-defence.

I paced along the road, travelling into the suburbs. I went towards one house, jumping over the garden gate and sneaking in to the back garden.

I scanned around. This was a beautiful garden, but I wasn’t really interested in that – I saw what I was here for. A shovel lay on the lawn, next to some freshly planted flowers. I picked it up and stealthily left, in a cunning display of thievery.

Whistling, I carried on through the suburbs. It was still pitch black – perhaps it was about one o’ clock now, but I had no idea and it could just as easily be three. There was hardly anyone on the streets, as there never is in the night time in this area. I walked along the main road, the shovel over my shoulder. A few cars passed, including a few police cars, but not one stopped – I didn’t even catch anyone looking curiously at me.

I took a left and strolled down a second street. The faint hum of traffic was still omnipresent in the suburbs. It was quite comforting. The shovel was quite lightweight, yet still quite big – it was a worthy find. I thought briefly of the victims of my minor stealing. I’d kept their garden tidy. It was quite a big house, and I live in a flat in the inner city. I wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it, and neither, I’d imagine, were they.

After a desperate final sprint, I entered the graveyard. I knew exactly where her grave was – I’d visited it before, to contemplate what I was about to do, and part of my mind was fixated on this exact spot constantly. Granny doesn’t care, I told myself. Granny is dead – it’s like a rock, or a tree – she won’t notice what you’re doing to her, because she’s fucking dead.

Wielding the shovel in my hand like a weapon, I thrust it into the soft, moist earth, penetrating it with cold, hard steel. I began to dig furiously. Sweat poured from every inch of my skin.

The graveyard is a weird place. It’s funny that some of us feel so passionately about places like this. If I went up to a normal person and said, “I work for the graveyard, we’re running out of space, and we plan to bury a body on top of your dead relative – with your consent, of course,” I would get called ‘sick’. This kind of thinking was lost on me. They were dead. I can understand you wanting to stand over their grave, I can understand you wanting to look at the gravestone and think about your loved one, and I can even understand, perfectly well, why you might want to sit next to the grave and talk to the person dead and buried underneath, giving them letters, leaving them roses – I understand it all. I just don’t understand why you’d be deliberately nice to them. When I die, people can spit, piss, dance, or perform whatever cliché they want, on my grave, and I don’t care, because I’ll be dead. I’d be flattered, more than anything, if someone had sex with my corpse, and I think that any rational human should feel the same. And if they don’t, I don’t care, because they’re dead and so their opinions don’t matter.

Eventually, I reached her coffin. I savoured the victory and anticipation. I looked down at the sealed coffin lid, closed my eyes, and waited a full minute in respect to her. I then took out the crowbar, and ripped the coffin lid off, inviting the light on to her moulding skin for the first time since she’d been sealed up, years ago. The smell of rotten flesh was nauseating. I shuddered.

Imagine getting buried alive. Imagine, waking up in a coffin, frantically trying to scratch your way out until your fingernails broke, until your hands were bloody stumps. You’d go insane with terror – completely mad, screaming desperately into the impenetrable depths of silence surrounding you. And eventually, starve to death, a huddled, pathetic mass, and your mind in completely overbearing madness. The constant pain, and the walls to the coffin crushing you into hopeless claustrophobia – surely that’s the worst way to go.

Fuck that, I thought. Perhaps you’d suffocate. Perhaps you’d overheat. Both would be shitty. I want all my organs taken out, I decided, if only so I’m definitely dead.

I mounted her dead body, and began to French kiss her, passionately. Her motionless mouth was completely dry, and her teeth were coated in a thick layer of fuzz. Her grim stillness sent a surge of blood to my penis. I licked her cracking lips, my lust overbearing. I began to massage her breasts. Her face was a slightly sickly-looking greenish white.

I remember, just before the stroke, which, in my opinion, pretty much killed her, I visited her house with my mum. She was obviously very old, and everyone, including her, knew that she didn’t have long to live. It must have been drastically depressing for her. She called me over to her, from her wheelchair she’d been secluded to for months. Her eye was black and her arm in a sling, after falling over. It had been a bit of a tragedy. She’d been stuck on the floor for hours, unable to get in contact with anyone, struggling to get up; her ancient, historic body defeated by old age.

“Kevin,” she croaked. We were in her living room, in her small bungalow in an estate full of the elderly. She had decorated it like an old person would – embroidered cushions scattered on pink sofas, and floral patterns adorning her walls. The flowers in the middle of her dining table were on a huge doily.

“Yes, grandma?” I replied, looking at her. She was hunched over, wearing a thick cardigan.

“Come over here.”

I stood up and navigated my way around her room, clustered with memories, being careful not to knock anything over. I arrived next to her, and, looking down at the back of her balding head, said, “What is it, grandma?”

“Closer,” she whispered. I leant in closer to her whiskered mouth. She’d always been a very serious woman, but I was startled by the look of sheer openness and honesty beaming from her wrinkled eyes.

“What, grandma?”

“Kevin,” she whispered again. “Die young.”

I shook myself back to the present. She was dressed in a moulding blouse. It looked quite beautiful during her funeral, I thought. I pulled it off, and gazed longingly at her maggot-filled, rotting bosom. Her breasts were thoroughly lacking cleavage, despite my company. A bluebottle flew out from inside her left nipple. Her legs were exposed, her only item of clothing, massive grandma-pants. I put my thumbs inside, and pulled them down. Her pubic hair was grey and falling out, and the stench from her festering vagina hit me like a tonne of shit.

With a smile, I began to eat her out. The gross taste of her, and the lack of movement from her corpse served as a constant and painfully erotic reminder that she was dead. She was dead, she was dead fucking sexy, and I was nibbling her clit. It was slightly green, and tasted of stale urine, shit, and rotten meat. It was like sticking my tongue into a ravine of death, deep into her lifeless corpse.

When I was satisfied with the foreplay, purely for my benefit, I pushed myself into her, squeezing into her coffin, and began to thrust my penis into her dead cunt. “Granny,” I whispered. “Granny, I love you.” I began to sweat, my mind euphoric, swimming with passion and desire, in this damp grave, in this dark graveyard. She felt like paper and cloth, her wrinkly skin and swollen muscle tissue poking out through her veins and into my fingernails.

I bit her nipple, biting it off. I spat it out, looking with a morbid fascination at the lack of blood coming out.

I nibbled her eyelid, accidentally tearing it off. A vacant black hole stared at me, with her eye socket and skull visible through the missing bit of face. I grinned, as a worm slid out from inside her brain.

Shit, I thought. So this is what becomes of us.

I realised I’d brought the fucking switchblade. Whilst grinding into her, her organs in her vagina rotten and bloated, I stabbed it into her neck and began to saw through her head. It slid through almost like a hot knife through butter, until I reached her spine. I tried briefly to cut through it, before removing myself from her and snapping her like a twig, my erect penis drooling on to her shoulders. I then grabbed her by the hair and pulled, hard, separating her from the final decaying bits of spine and rotten skin. Blood leaked out, a dark crimson seeping from her neck.

I sat down in the grave. The Sun was beginning to rise. I picked up her head, grinning at me in an almost macabre fashion, and shoved my throbbing erection into her empty eye socket. I fucked her face until eventually I ejaculated into her skull, filling her brain with my semen.

I tossed the head on to her body and pulled up my pants. I then lifted myself out, looked down, muttered, “I love you, granny,” and walked away, leaving whoever was lucky enough to walk by to come across my mess.