I hate the way the dead are dressed in boring church clothes. I hate the way their grayed faces are painted in a failed attempt to resemble their living self.

We should be naked! We came into the world naked, right? Why don't we leave that way too?

Most of all, I hate the way funeral-goers spew lie after lie about the carcass in the box. Each reinvents his or her history with the deceased. After all, the corpse can no longer refute these tales.

That being said, I wouldn't have missed this one for all the tea in Britain…

I slowly drift around the casket, focusing on the material aspects. Hmmm, lavender velvet lining. Black walnut. White lilies. Not just a casket spray, but dozens of bouquets of white lilies – the symbol of the soul's return to innocence. What a fitting flower of death for a slut. Great choice, Steven. He certainly spared no expense.

I look up to see who else has wandered into this little party. Mostly it's Steven's business associates. A few neighbors drifted in. They'd support Steven, bringing him food for a bit. Just one more odd funeral custom.

Eating was the last thing on my mind when my parents passed away. That was one of many things Steven and I had in common. Before we'd met, he'd recently lost his parents in a car crash. Although in his late twenties, it was still devastating.

He felt responsible for his sister and they shared an apartment when I met him. Not for long though. She was an odd one. Heavy energy. Overbearing. The kind of person that sucked the air out of a room when she entered. Oh, she was nice enough when I'd met her, but I heard them argue quite a bit behind closed doors. Then one day, she moved out. To my knowledge, Steven hadn't spoken to her much since.

Oh … speak of the devil, she just walked through the door. Maybe, this is a good thing. She no doubt loves him and he needs support right now.

I know, I'm stalling. Why is it so hard to look inside? Supposedly, seeing someone lying in the coffin brings closure. I can only hope that's true.

Eventually, curiosity overpowers anxiety, and I peer inside at her. My first thought is Aw fuck, what has he done to her? That God-awful floral dress. Hands neatly folded across her tummy. Hair tightly curled. Pretty pink lipstick … yuk! And her normally plump breasts, which always pushed the limits of the material, are fully concealed and miraculously flattened like pancakes. I shake my head, half disappointed, half amused, ultimately deciding she looks like he always assumed she lived – prim and proper.

Of course, I know differently … because I am her.

I guess I should explain. I'm dead. That's right – dead girl talking. I'll give you a moment to let that soak in … there you go.

Believe me, it took me a bit too. Even more so because I didn't die of natural causes. More specifically, I was murdered. And even more specifically, I was choked to death with a sash from hands I never saw.

I was always told when you die you'd see the golden gates to Heaven and a beautiful angel would welcome you. Well, it doesn't quite work that way.

You see, your soul needs a refresh of sorts. When you die, you experience a replay of your life with objective eyes. Anything you have yet to learn from your life, you learn. You forgive. You understand. Then, you go on … wherever on may be. I guess I have more work to do because I'm still here … apparently about to watch my funeral.

Steven…

He was – is – the love of my life. Handsome. Caring. Dependable. Safe. One of the good guys. Moreover, I always came first, in both senses of the word.

I was raised by a very strict single father. There was school and church and family time. That was my life. One doesn't miss what one doesn't know, so I was happy.

Everything changed in a heartbeat – literally – when my father's heart stopped beating one night in his sleep. I was eighteen.

Sure, I had other family – aunts, uncles, cousins – but I wanted to try living on my own. I waitressed at a local diner to pay my bills. What I saw, and heard, in that diner awakened me to the world. Eavesdropping on others' conversations and lives became my favorite aspect of the job.

One day, a handsome, blonde-haired man walked into the diner and pulled up a stool at the counter. He stood out from the regulars, dressed in a dark, tailored suit. We started chatting and he told me he had just started work at a large firm around the corner. Soon after his first visit, his morning visits became lunch visits, then after-work visits, until one night he stayed until I closed up for the night.

Always the gentleman, he offered to walk me home to my apartment a few streets over. I invited him inside. And within an hour, I was experiencing my first orgasm with his tongue somewhere I never imagined a man's tongue to be. Moments later, I lost my virginity.

I lay still staring at the ceiling, trying to recall what I'd just experienced. No words. No words could describe those new sensations. Now, my only thought was, When can we do it again?

Sex with Steven was great in the beginning. And then eventually it wasn't. Nothing had changed and maybe that was the problem. His "usual" no longer got me off.

A few well-timed oohs and ahhs mixed with trembling legs were all it took to convince him I'd orgasmed. I resorted to those measures the next few times we fucked, not knowing what else to do. What was wrong with me? Thoughts of sex flooded my brain, yet I couldn't cum with my husband.

One night after he had drifted off to sleep, I padded to the bathroom. Determined to solve the issue of my truant orgasm, I took matters into my own hands – literally.

My clit was numb. I rubbed and rubbed and rubbed and nothing. Tears fell as I plunged three fingers inside my dry pussy. Pistoning them in and out was useless. Still nothing! What was missing? I couldn't cum! That feeling. That glorious feeling had abandoned me. I'd been watching myself in the mirror, desperate to catch a glimmer of arousal on my face. Praying my masturbating fingers would affect me. It was all in vain.

Frustrated, I moved my backside against the wall, banging my head against its hard surface. Was I trying to knock something loose inside my head? Maybe. I had become quite desperate. Giving up, I slid my back down the wall and landed with a thump on my ass. Drawing my knees into my chest, I rocked back and forth sobbing.

No doubt in my mind, I loved Steven, but it wasn't enough. I realized the man who gave me safety and security couldn't be the man who gave me excitement, risk, and danger. And I decided I needed the latter to cum.

Limits are stretched…

I turned to porn.

Lucky for me, Steven had taken a new job in sales which required travel from Monday until Friday, giving me ample privacy for my new "hobby".

"You're the best, baby," he'd said. "So understanding and supportive of my new job!"

Yup, that was me. I'd convinced myself he was benefitting too. When he returned on Friday night, I was back to being an authentic cummer, drawing on porn from the week to feed my arousal.

Speaking of porn again, it was surprisingly easy to find. Just type "porn" in Mr. Google and Bam!, the screen was filled with people fucking.

I browsed a few videos then clicked on a site. Wow! So many categories to choose from. BDSM caught my eye, though, or rather, my clit. Bondage and Discipline. Dominance and Submission. Sadism and Masochism. From the first video, I knew that was for me. I flooded my panties without a single touch to my clit watching the man whip her. I'd never watched anything like that before and it definitely affected me.

Sexually charged didn't begin to describe my behavior over the next week. Every moment to myself, I was binging BDSM videos and cumming. No other thoughts occupied my mind. Unfortunately, Steven noticed my distracted behavior and grew worried, started questioning me. Guilt slapped my face. No. I couldn't let my obsession affect him or our marriage. I had to find a way to act out these fantasies, then I could return home, focused on being a dutiful wife.

One sex video site I visited posted pop-up ads, with links to click for horny grannies to swingers to everything in between. Turned out, shopping for sex was easier than shopping for shoes.

It didn't take many clicks to find what I sought. "Master Jonathan" was his name.

I reached out to him via email and to my excitement, he responded. Some part of me doubted he would, questioning the realness of the services he supposedly offered. He turned out to be, however, an authentic practicing Dom and I couldn't wait to meet him.

I drove to the address he gave me, surprised to find a home located on a private drive. I guess my imagination had envisioned a dark dungeon or the like. Regardless, this was risky – meeting a man I'd met through the Internet at his home. But, that risk was part of the thrill for me.

To my pleasure, a very handsome man answered the door, dressed in black slacks and a crisp, white shirt, no tie.

With a warm smile, he greeted me. "Hello, I'm Master Jonathan. Please come in."

He stepped to the side, motioning me to walk past him and enter his home.

My heart raced as I strode past him, appreciating his muscular build. Once inside, I stood still, glancing around the room. The housekeeping was meticulous. The furniture and decor were appealing. Immediately, I felt safe.

He led me to a door at the end of a hall and paused, turning to face me.

"I'm here to give you what you need. You can trust me."

"Thank you," I whispered, suddenly feeling anxious.

After we entered the room, he gave me a moment to adjust. There was a lot to take in with various benches, chairs, sex toys spread around the room. My legs quivered in anticipation.

He positioned himself directly in front of me and with a calm, even-toned voice said, "Remove your clothes."

"What? I thought we'd–"

"Remove your clothes. I'm not in the habit of asking twice."

He took a step closer, towering over my petite stature, adding to his authoritative presence. Although he spoke using direct, slightly clipped phrases, his tone remained smooth and unwavering.

"Okay."

I slipped off my heels and he interrupted with, "'Yes, Sir' is how you will answer me."

Immediately, I stammered, "Yes … yes, Sir."

His eyes raked over each newly revealed inch of my flesh as I removed my clothes, piece by piece. The slight upturn of his lips eased my nerves somewhat. He likes what he sees.

"As we previously discussed, I'm here to push your limits. Your body will be temporarily marked, but as promised, the marks should be gone before your husband returns on Friday night. From our session Monday night until Friday should be adequate time to heal. You have your safe word. Last, but not least, my cock never enters you. That is my hard limit. I don't fuck my clients, only my wife."

"I understand. I don't wish to fuck another man besides my husband."

"Good. We shall get along fine then."

I stood naked with him circling me, dragging his fingertip across my cheekbone, then my shoulder, then down my spine until his finger lingered at the top of my ass crack.

I gasped as that same finger slid down and suddenly plunged into my pussy. He withdrew it and brought it to his lips.

My breathing had become quite erratic by this point. He stepped away, left me alone, naked and trembling, then returned with an assortment of spanking implements.

My first emotion was fear. My second was arousal.

He held each one in turn in front of my face, seemingly gauging my reactions.

Snap!

Without warning, he brought the crop down against his thigh. I jumped, then wet myself a little.

He grinned, knowing what that sound had done to me, but finger tested my pussy to be sure.

"I will warm you up with a hand spanking." He sat down on an armless chair in the center of the room. "Come here."

This is it! Can I do this?

It seemed a million paces to get to him. Once by his side, he helped pull me across his lap. I felt the blood rush to my head – and my clit.

He sat quietly. Made me wait for it. The anticipation was breathtaking, waiting for his hand to strike.

Smack!

Fuck, that stung more than I thought it would. I bit my lip trying to remain quiet.

A few moments passed then, Smack!

Oh, God! The pain hadn't dissipated from the first yet.

Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack! Smack!

His hands struck my ass in such quick succession my body couldn't react until it was over.

Pausing, I felt his fingers slide between my legs. I heard my wetness as he finger-fucked me.

"Sir!" I gasped.

He didn't respond but spanked me again even harder. My hand protectively shot back to cover my burning cheeks and he grabbed it and pinned it to my back.

Restraining me? Fuck, what a turn-on.

I fought him, kicking my legs. More restraining followed with his heavy leg trapping mine. Everything from my waist to my knees ignited in pleasurable pain from his spanking. I could only lay across his lap and take it.

When I was on the verge of tears, his hand stopped spanking me and he switched to caressing, fingering, stroking.

I came – hard.

He continued his finger-playing between my legs until my breathing settled.

Patting my warm ass, he said, "That was your warm-up. Now, I will whip you with the crop. Stand up, please."

He had to assist with that command as my legs were jello. Honestly, his mention of whipping scared me. I didn't know how much more I could take, but that part excited the hell out of me. Just how tough was I?

As he strapped me to the spanking bench, tears stained my face. Before the first snap of the crop, I was sobbing. Its strike carried a completely different sensation than his hand, more like a bite on my already-sensitive flesh. I took it though, losing count. Just when I thought I'd reached my limit, he struck my swollen clit with the crop and I experienced a mind-numbing orgasm, squirted even.

I felt alive and completely sexually satisfied at that moment. The pain was a warm blanket enveloping me. I fucking loved it!

In my post-orgasmic fog, I hadn't realized he'd left until I saw him walk back holding a jar of cream of some kind.

"What's that for?"

"To ease the pain on your ass, my dear."

"NO!"

He frowned and I softened my response.

"Umm, I mean, please no, Sir. I want the pain to linger."

He stood silently, studying me, then he set the jar back on the table. Taking a seat in the chair next to me, he took a deep breath and asked, "Why are you really here?"

There was something about the soothing tone of his voice and kindness behind his eyes that made me trust him. So I told him … everything. Bluntly and without censure, I honestly admitted my sexual cravings. The pleasures and shame that accompanied my addiction. He listened. Really listened.

This type of aftercare would follow all my sessions from that point forward. He pushed my limits, made me scream, cum, and cry at times, then when it was over, he morphed into a therapist of sorts. I would talk and he would listen.

Addiction turns dangerous...

I'd hoped, even prayed, that my time with Master Jonathan would quench my dark thirsts. It did for a while, but like the alcoholic, the number of drinks to achieve a buzz increased. Try as I did to keep another man's cock out of my pussy, I failed. I needed that blood-filled, throbbing, piece of meat plunging into my cunt. Crossing that line would be the ultimate betrayal to Steven. Could I live with that? I was about to find out...

Seventh Street was the underbelly of the city. No respectable person ventured there. Perfect, since I was hardly having respectable yearnings. I dressed for it, ripping my t-shirt to showcase underboobs. For added insurance, I slid on an easy-to-raise, ass-short, flowy skirt.

Now what to do with my makeup. Hmmm. I could mimic a slutty pornstar. Trying to visualize my face in the mirror, I shook off that notion. Not the look I wanted. After some experimenting, I decided on a bare face with smudged eyeliner and red lipstick. I definitely preferred men to focus on my lips over eyes tonight. Eyes reveal too much about a person.

I parked my car a few streets away and walked to my destination. Excitement filled me; anticipation raged within for what I hoped would find me tonight. Just thinking about it made me wet. My fingers tugged at my crotch, attempting to unstick the sodden panties clinging to my lips. This was indeed a good sign.

The drunks and drug dealers littering the streets unnerved me, yet my body reacted in other ways too. My nipples poked my thin t-shirt, drawing more than a few cat-calls from passersby.

The neon bar sign caught my eye. May as well start there. As soon as I entered, I knew I belonged. It smelled of sex.

Couples were grinding against each other on the dance floor. One man grabbed his bulge with one hand and a lady's ass with the other as they stood at the bar. Yup, this was my scene for what I had planned.

I didn't have to wait long before my own ass was grabbed.

"You're a hot piece," he said, eyes locked onto my breasts.

I brushed the back of my hand back and forth against his crotch and squeezed his dick through his jeans. "What do you want to do with me?"

He gripped my ass, pulling me towards him so that my hand was trapped on his cock between us. His bulge doubled in size by my hand. My hand. What an adrenaline rush waiting to see where this led. His bloodshot eyes locked with mine and we silently agreed.

Why this man? He craved, at this moment, sex as much as me. It was cock and pussy kismet. His leering eyes and fuck-starved body matched mine. Quite simply, addicts prefer the company of addicts. They kept my shame at bay – temporarily.

He dented the flesh on my arm, dragging me into the alley filled with the seedy bar's trash. How appropriate. The pungent smell matched the filthy surroundings.

Voices around the corner snapped my attention to the opening of the alley. With the lighting above the bar's back entry door, we were visible if anyone were to walk by. My heart beat out of my chest as he ran his calloused hands from my neck down my collarbone and underneath my tee. His face matched his hands, rough, weathered, yet strong. Lifting my leg and hooking my foot around his hip, I ground my pussy against the bulge in his pants as he eagerly groped my breasts.

The voices grew closer, providing the danger of exposure I sought, making me hump him faster.

I unzipped his jeans and yanked his dick out. "Fuck me," I begged with a voice I didn't recognize.

"Shit, you're a horny bitch," he said, then jerked my skirt up, panting in my face with his bourbon-soaked breath. "I'm gonna destroy your cunt, slut!"

Pushing my panties to the side, he stepped closer and rammed – I mean rammed – his cock inside me. I welcomed the pain. God, how I welcomed it!

We rutted against one another like savage animals. Once, I dared make eye contact and the devil himself stared back. His jagged nails dug into my ass.

"Harder!" I demanded through gritted teeth.

He should have split me open. I'd feel where he was tomorrow for sure. His fat cock ground and fucked and thrust. I came and kept cumming until his seed spewed inside me and his cock shrunk enough to escape my pussy's clutches. Jesus! Oh, Jesus! I called out my Savior's name, even knowing he was nowhere near this gross scene.

On the drive home, I relived every vulgar moment … until my car reached the driveway. My conservative, two-story, red-bricked home in the suburbs snapped me back to reality.

Once inside the door, I ran to the shower, ripping my clothes off and jumping underneath the water stream. My nails raked over my arms and breasts trying to scratch away his stench that clung to my flesh. Grabbing a washcloth, I scrubbed my pussy with vigor, desperate to wash away any remaining drippings of his cum. I plunged a washcloth-covered finger inside my traitorous cunt. Over and over and over.

Overcome with shame, I collapsed onto my knees sobbing, water streaming down my face, mixing with my tears. What have I done?

But, I did it again. Fucked another stranger. And another. And another. Then, three at once. "Airtight". Those three said I'd be "airtight." After each there was remorse. Guilt over betraying Steven. But my lust grew greater than my conscience.

My behavior was reckless. Dangerous. I didn't know these men or who they'd been with. I still don't know how I avoided an STD after all those fucks.

Why did I risk my marriage, my health, my very life? Well…

I am that diabetic in a candy store, an alcoholic at a Jameson's distillery, trying to survive never-ending cravings that are only ever dimmed when I'm oozing cum from my cunt, constantly seeking the next fuck, different sensations, different cocks to plug my ass or my pussy or my mouth, lacking focus without a plan for that next orgasmic high, desiring possible exposure, yearning to be shocked, wanting to feel nothing, and I mean nothing, except, that indescribable, body-convulsing, irreplaceable carnal high I get from sex.

Then, my luck ran out.

On another night, I had just been ass-fucked behind a club. My fuck buddy's girl caught him mid-thrust and started beating on his back with her fists. He fought her off while continuing to ravage my dirty hole. I'm not sure how many times I came, it was such a rush. He finished the job then roughly led her away with her continuing to shout obscenities and pelt him with pitiful punches.

I had made a real mess of myself, cum (mine and his) running down my legs. I was bent over when my neck was snapped back, forcing me to stand. Something was around my neck getting tighter and tighter. I can't breathe! My hands tried to pry the thin material from my throat, but failed! I opened my mouth to scream, but no noise could escape my constricted vocal cords! As my head exploded from lack of oxygen, my husband's face flashed before me. Oh, God … Steven … I'm sorry...

My funeral...

The pallbearers line up in front of the casket, signaling this "party" is about to begin. Organ music starts playing as sweet Stephen takes one last look at me. A touching tear rolls down his cheek. Do I have any regrets? Yes. He didn't deserve to be cucked. I hope somehow he knows I love him and I'm sorry. It had been my addiction – that horrid, inescapable addiction – driving my actions; it had nothing to do with my feelings towards him.

My hand reaches for him as he walks past me, but, of course, touch is no longer possible for me.

Before I can mourn this physical loss, something unexpected happens. His sister, dotting her eyes with a handkerchief, approaches "dead me". Her normal vacant eyes sparkle. A peculiar grin marks her face. Leaning over the casket, her lips graze my lifeless ear and she whispers, "It was my pleasure to kill you. He's mine now…"

Damn … I didn't see that coming.