Sex and Murder Magazine

By Gerald Vincent

Dear Reader,

I have on occasion been questioned about my personal affairs and where the sexual exploits of my own life have taken me. Given the bawdy nature of the tales that I put to paper, for some individuals this seems to be a source of great curiosity and even speculation. While I am at present not at leisure to discuss my own forays into the taboo or the bizarre, I will however say that I prefer a most spirited and vivacious response from my female companionship. And, while I am sure that many share this particular desire, it is safe to say that it is not shared by all. Take for example one Monsieur Bertram Dumont, a man whose sexual proclivities tend to lean towards the less than lively. A longtime student of the mortuary arts, this man had ample opportunity to indulge his special needs, especially in the late hours of the evening when the owner of the funerary had retired for the night. In his youth, M. Dumont always sought out the most beautiful, the freshest young female corpses to spend some quiet intimate moments with. If perchance the body arrived in a somewhat less than pristine state he would put his considerable skills to work and before long the young lady would look more like a blushing bride ready for her first journey to the marriage bed, rather than a lifeless lump of cold flesh destined for internment. The young mortician delighted in hearing the family members of the deceased expound on how lifelike she looked. It was in moments like this that he glowed with pride and smiled to himself in anticipation of what would happen later that evening after all the mourners had gone home.

This ritual repeated itself for nearly a dozen years before Bertram began to become more brazen in his pursuits of pleasure. It was at this time that he pondered what a visitation would be like with a woman in a more advanced state than that of his usual charges. To that end, he would on some nights skulk through the cemetery wondering just how long it would take to dig up one of the women already committed to the good earth.

"Perhaps it would be best," he thought "to try with one newly placed, thus having soil that was still loose in its consistency."

And so late one evening, with shovel in hand, Dumont climbed over the iron fence surrounding the Eternal Rest Cemetery. It was the middle of summer, and even at night a thick sultriness hung in the air. The faint scent of flowers could be detected from those graves that were attended by relatives of the deceased. The mortician knew that in daylight the trees of this place were lush and green; but, now under the sable hued sky, the trees all had twisted, ominous shapes to them.

He walked through a seemingly endless sea of headstones. Each one was a different shape and they were all in neat tidy columns much like soldiers marching off to battle. Only these stones, (not to mention the individuals housed beneath them) were not going anywhere. He arrived after a good deal of walking, at the final resting place of Mademoiselle Renard, who was entombed no more than one month ago. The caretaker of the cemetery was nowhere to be seen, so the would-be grave robber steeled up his courage and began to dig. With the first strike of his shovel into the earth, the church bells tolled the hour of two with such a thunderous resonance that Dumont's heart nearly froze still in his chest. It was then that he was very thankful he had urinated before he left the house; for he would surely have soiled himself such was his shock at hearing the bells' frightful utterance. The silvery crescent moon was well into the sky by the time the shovel thumped against the solid wood of the casket lid.

"Now all that remains is to open it," he thought as he placed his gloved fingers under the edge of the lid. The defiler was driven on by a most unnatural lust and gave a mighty pull. With some sustained effort on his part the nails finally gave way. The lid creaked open with a tortured, heart-sickening groan. He hesitated for just a moment. He remained absolutely still to ensure that no one had heard him. The very act of opening a consecrated grave was considered blasphemous and if caught he would surely receive at least 20 lashes in the public square. All was quiet though, and after a few more moments of listening he gazed longingly at his newest ladylove.

The skin had begun to pull back and tighten on her face as the first stages of decomposition had set in. The cheekbones were clearly visible and the eyes had a glazed over, almost watery quality to them. It almost appeared as if Mademoiselle Renard had begun to weep, being possessed of a precognition of her own impending desecration. And then there was the smell. Even though she had only gone into the ground naught but 30 days ago, it was plainly obvious that this woman's body had developed a distinctive perfume in her time away from the living. It struck Dumont to be very much like the smell of the ocean when the tide had gone out only with a delectable rancid quality that he found irresistible. This most ungodly man then felt the blood flow away from his more public appendages in favor of a more intimate environment and at that point he knew that the moment had come.

To remove the funeral gown was the work of but a few moments, as this, like other burial garments had been slit up the back for easy dressing. With this task completed, the postmortem plunderer soaked in the glory of the naked cadaver for just a moment. He savored the anticipation before unbuttoning his breeches and unleashing his fully aroused manhood. With infinite care he lowered himself down and very delicately slid himself deep into the dead woman's nether regions. He took great pains to keep his rhythms slow and steady lest he cause the body undue duress. Eventually however, his own base desire overtook him and he found himself violently impaling the hapless maiden with his inflamed organ again and again until the final shattering spasm of lust overtook him and he expelled his seed deep into the corpse. As the orgasm drained the energy out of him, Dumont laid himself gingerly down upon the dead woman. His breathing returned to normal and before long he had re-buttoned his trousers and climbed out of the grave. He gave Mademoiselle Renard one last look, (the look of a departing lover) before using his shovel to replace the casket lid. It sat somewhat crookedly as he began to shovel the re-loosened earth back into the grave.

It was the work of but a few minutes to give the place the appearance of not having been disturbed at all. Later that night, alone in his bed, the triumphant lover thought back on his evening's debauchery.

"How easy it was," he thought, "to finally be able to love like other men. What a wonder it was to fully be enthralled in that blessed, overriding frenzy that only true passion can provide." He had reached the point of no return, and went raging past it. Only the cemetery would do from now on. His amateurish attempts at love in the back of the funeral home now paled in comparison to what he experienced with the newly violated Mademoiselle Renard.

Over the next few months he made a trip to the graveyard about once every fortnight. He had his way with daughters, sisters, and mothers, all in various states of decay. He found that he had a particular fondness for the ladies whose most intimate areas contained a certain quantity of maggots. They provided a delightful, squirming quality that brought him to climax all the faster then the ladies that went without.

One evening in late October, Bertram found himself quite in need of feminine company and had by his reckoning not visited the cemetery for over three weeks. He decided that something special was in order for this evening. He grabbed his trusty shovel and made his way to the burial ground. A dank chill sliced through the air with each gust of wind that seemed to silently stampede through the graveyard. And yet, despite the frigid wind, a slithering white mist crept unhurriedly along the ground obscuring those grave markers that when carved were designed to lie parallel with the earth. The undertaker scanned the names and dates on the larger headstones until finally he found his special, sought-after lady in waiting. The headstone was dark granite, which in itself was unique among the lighter colored monuments that dominated the necropolis. It marked the last resting place of Madame Marie Anjou, loving wife, dedicated mother, and resident of the Eternal Rest Cemetery for the last two weeks. Madame Anjou was in the process of celebrating her 40th birthday, when in the middle of the revel it was said she collapsed mid-whirl on the dance floor. The doctor pronounced it as a brain hemorrhage and all of France had lost one of its most beloved stage actors. Due to the relatives' wishes, the newly deceased thespian was tended by the family undertaker and had thus escaped a visit to Monsieur Dumont's funeral home. But alas, now he had her all to himself.

After he had started to dig, Bertram noticed that a huge black bird had sat itself on the upper peak of the dark monument. After a few more minutes of excavation, he looked up and saw that the bird had not moved a muscle and was staring at him most intensely, almost as if it were a part of the marker upon which it sat.

"Do birds ever blink?" he thought about this not really knowing if anyone could rightfully say so or not. The mortician had eyed the bird for some time and did not observe the avian eyes blinking even once. The ever-persistent digger resumed the shovel, and about three quarters of the way through his task the bird let out a raucous mocking cry that took on the decidedly disturbing sound of sadistic laughter. Dumont started, just for a moment, and then regaining himself stooped and grabbed a pebble from within the newly re-dug grave. He made a keen throw and the tiny missile struck its target. The bird let loose a soul-piercing caw of derisive merriment and flapped off into the ebony sky. Despite the chill in the air, sweat had now risen on the grave robber's brow. His heartbeat was unusually fast, from the exertion of the digging, he told himself.

In a few more minutes, the shovel struck the solid oak of the coffin lid. He knew that the actress's family had spared no expense with the funeral arrangements and so the ghoul had foreseen that this or some similar obstacle would await him. He used the shovel as a pry bar and began to wedge the lid upwards. After what seemed to him like an eternal struggle, the lid was finally wrestled from its place. M. Dumont slowly opened the oak coffin with a greedy, wanton gleam in his eye. He felt that this must be what a bridegroom felt like when he was undressing his new wife for the first time. The lid opened in complete silence and exposed the corpse of the newly deceased actress. Her two weeks in the ground did little to dampen the natural beauty that had captivated so many theatergoers throughout her career. In fact, it seemed that the body underwent no adverse physical changes at all. After removing the funeral dress, Bertram noticed amazingly that her body seemed perfectly lifelike, much the same as a living woman might have looked while enjoying a quiet repose. She even appeared to blush, being newly naked under the gaze of this strange man. The only thing that betrayed the fact that this woman was dead at all was the stench of rot that permeated the air. Despite her perfect appearance, the fragrance of decay wafted temptingly into the undertaker's nostrils.

The would-be lover unbuttoned his breeches and cast them aside. He then pulled the corpse's legs apart with surprisingly little effort, almost as if Madame Anjou were inviting this postmortem tryst. With all the eagerness of a boy in his teens, Dumont slid himself inside the seemingly still quivering insides of his favorite actress. Before long, he was lost in his ever-increasing passion. He closed his eyes and surrendered to the delectable sensations being afforded him by his newest conquest. He could swear he felt the dead woman's legs wrap around his waist virtually begging him to remain deep inside her. He longed to gaze upon his famous lover. Bertram opened his eyes and to his absolute delight and surprise the actress seemed to be smiling up at him. Then in a matter of seconds, his feelings of wonder and pleasure were transformed into pangs of unthinkable horror as he watched the gorgeous face of Madame Anjou slowly rot away before his very eyes, until she bore the appearance of someone who had lain in the grave for no less than 50 years. In his terror the mortician tried to pull away, but found himself held tight now, not only by the skeletal legs but also by the fleshless arms wrapped snugly around his torso. The grave robber shrieked horribly for many minutes as he realized that the bones were not merely locked in position but were holding him of their own accord!

After the screams subsided a soft shuffling sound could be heard. Footsteps! Finally his awful secret would be laid bare to the whole town. With a great effort, the prisoner craned his neck and saw that indeed it was not the townsfolk who now looked down into the open grave. The breath caught in his throat as he saw, standing above his prone form no less than six rotting male corpses. He surmised they had newly crawled out of the ground as bits of earth clung to all of them. Some still bore the tattered remnants of their burial clothes. Most had some prominent feature missing, whether it was an eye, a nose, or some other facial detail gnawed away by the denizens of the earth. With the dread that only inescapable doom can evoke, Dumont noted that despite the previously mentioned wounds, each zombie had a fully erect and pulsating phallus of no less than 10 inches.

As the first shambling heap of flesh lowered itself into the grave, the trapped mortician could only guess its intent given how horribly exposed he was. The creature knelt down and with a most unwieldy thrust drove its rotted member into his victim's anus. The awful cry of a caged animal escaped the necrophile's lips as the dead man had his way with him. After no less than 30 minutes of this torment, the corpse stood and climbed out of the crypt only to be replaced by one of its fellows. Dumont screamed anew as after having been horribly violated by the first of the undead, the second corpse took its turn. So violent was the act that the victim could feel the very tissues of his innards being torn and bloodied.

He was not sure exactly when he passed out from the pain, but knew only that when he awoke it felt as though someone had inserted a lit torch into his rectum and left it there. Much to his dismay, Dumont realized that the body of Madame Anjou still held him in an iron grip. A low desperate moan escaped his lips and was answered by a malevolent mocking laughter. With great force of will, the victim turned his neck at a most unnatural angle and expected to see the large black bird once again perched upon the granite headstone. But instead he saw a small creature that looked to him to be much like a gargoyle that had come to life and sprung itself down from the spires of Notre Dame. Its glowing yellow eyes glared down into the grave as it once again let loose its hideous mirth. And now Bertram felt a new sensation, a thousand times subtler, and yet unspeakably more terrifying than any that had come before. A light thudding sensation on his back sent panicked shockwaves up and down his spine. Dirt! The zombies who spent the better part of the night tearing his entrails to bloody shreds were now ever so carefully replacing the soil that had been dug up earlier. Cries for mercy rang out but it was apparent that none was forthcoming. Without so much as a word the undead rapists proceeded to bury the mortician alive in the crypt, locked in the grasp of Madame Anjou.

When the sun had finally risen over the cemetery not a single clue or indication remained of the ghastly events that happened throughout the previous evening. The actress's grave gave the appearance of never having been disturbed at all, let alone that it contained a new occupant. The sudden disappearance of Bertram Dumont was taken with a good deal of surprise. In the end however, since there was no evidence of foul play, it was concluded that he had found himself some pretty young thing, and decided to set up housekeeping in the country. It is said by some that low, sorrowful moans can now be heard within the Eternal Rest cemetery at night. It is also whispered that the moans were a bit more pronounced when one drew closer to the grave of Madame Marie Anjou. Since they had no way to account for this, the townspeople began to spread tales that it was the souls of the dead actress's fans that were mourning their unrequited love for her.

But alas Dear Reader, we know better. For it is not unfulfilled love that brings forth the awful dirge, but rather it is the regretful cry of a man who satisfied his passion for the actress all too well, and now remains locked in his lover's embrace…forever.






















































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