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Introduction:

New desires arise after an unexpected situation

This is a sequel to an earlier story, Reluctant Desires. You may wish to read it before continuing.

New Desires

Work seems to have taken over my life in the last few years. Appointments, chemical shipments, equipment repairs, business meetings and finances haven't left me much of a social life. I really should hire a staff member or two, I can certainly afford it, but the risk out weighs any reward. So instead I run myself ragged. But still, I always make time for date night.

The pleasant numbness from my last orgasm slowly recedes as we lay next to each other. His head is turned towards me and his eyes are closed. Even though he's going grey he is far more handsome than distinguished. I stretch my legs while watching him rest, arm propping my head up. The steady flicker of the candles around us light us in a husky glow. I take a sip from my wine glass, spilling a small drop on my breast due to the awkward angle. i stare into his face lovingly, enjoying the peaceful moment before resigning myself.

"This has been fun, Derek, but I have to work in the morning." I say.

Putting the glass down between us I sit up and swing my legs off the steel slab we'd shared our lovemaking on and stand up. I take a moment to dust myself off, removing any stray rose petals stuck to my body. Picking up my wine glass, I swallow the last little bit and put it down on the counter on the opposite wall. Picking through my clothes I find my underwear and get dressed, stepping into my panties and hooking my bra on. It takes me a moment to find a sock that had somehow been tossed eight feet in the opposite direction from the rest of my clothes. Fully clothed once more I reach over to Derek and take the cock ring off of him. I grab the steel tray he lies on and slide it with ease from the table to the cart next to it. Disengaging the foot break I wheel him down the hall to the creamator and slid him in. I check my watch to make sure it's not too early to turn it on. But the municipal restriction on operating a crematorium is lifted at 6AM and it is exactly 5:58 AM. I doubt anyone will mind. I hit a series of buttons with practiced ease and leave as the machine fires up. I return to the mortuary and clean up, blowing out the candles, sweeping up and putting the wine away. Then I make my way to the front and head to my office. With a yawn I brace myself for a long day, as I have the Foley funeral in four hours.

***

It's surprisingly easy to become a serial killer. I sit at the diner two blocks from my funeral home and wait for my late lunch to arrive. On the eight page is a story about the 'Honey Pot Killer'. I certainly hadn't thought to become a serial killer but I accepted that's what I was. They only connected four disappearances, Derek not among them, but it had been enough for the media and the police to puzzle it together. I think back to my photo album hidden in the mortuary. If you take away the guys I met at work and the ones they know about ... they're only 18 off.

I jolt in my seat as if struck. Have I really had sex with 29 guys? Suddenly worried I pull out my cellphone and call my best friend. She's not someone I particularly have any real care for, but she means well and has given some good advice in the passed.

"Hey Corey." Diane answers.

"Diane, how many people do you need to have sex with before you're a slut?" I ask quietly.

There's a moment of silence. "Corey, I hope you're asking about yourself or someone else and not me." She says, a bit of humour in her voice.

"Seriously. How many?" I ask.

The waitress arrives with my club sandwich and I smile politely to her in acknowledgement.

"I don't know. I think it's more about the way you go about doing it and how you ask. Why?" She replies.

"I just realized that I've slept with 29 guys."

"No, Dylan, put it over there. Sorry Corey, just a minute." Diane takes the phone away from her face as she speaks with someone, asking them to move a box down a hall. "Sorry. You said 29 guys?"

"Yes." My eyes dart around self consciously.

"Do you know their names?" She asks.

"Yeah. Why?"

Diane ignores me. "Were you drunk for most of them?"

"No."

"And were they one night stands."

I think for a moment. "A couple."

Diane chuckles. "You're not a hoe bag, sweetheart. You've dated a few times and nothing worked out and you banged a few random, lucky guys when you wanted to bone. There's nothing wrong with being a woman who knows what she wants. Bravo, by the way. 29. That's at least eight more than me. If you count more than just sex, as least. Where'd you meet all these guys I've never heard about?"

"Some online." I say. "A few I met at work."

"At work?" Diane asks. "Corey, have you been fucking grieving family members?" She begins to laugh.

"Thanks Diane. I gotta go." I say, a smirk tugging my lips.

"'Kay." We give each other a kiss over the phone and hang up.

Yeah, I'm not a slut. I'm just a woman who knows what she wants. I dig into my sandwich newly content.

***

Dinner had been nice. I'd paid for it. Skylar was a sweet, stupid kid that wanted to get his rocks off. It had been four months since I'd last been intimate. Derek had been tied to the Honey Pot Killer after all, so I'd decided to keep a low profile in the dating department for a bit. Skylar and I had been talking on line for a month. He'd just turned 18 and was a shy boy. He was a seven hour drive out of town, but these were the sacrifices you made sometimes for your love life. He new we were going to have sex, I'd promised him his first time. Despite the fact that I'm 34 I'm very young looking, being small in stature and standing only 5'4 in heels. I hadn't shown him a picture online but I had given a description of myself. And the promise of an older woman with experience had gone a long way in putting him at ease. Halfway through dinner I worried I'd turned into a cougar. I thought back to my conversation with Diane and brushed it off.

I was planning to drive him back to my home. My car and house have expensive cellphone scramblers so there would be no record of his trip out of town. I'd seduce him, let him get off and then drug him. My house has an attached garage so it would be easy to move him to the car and to my funeral home. Kill him, fuck him, embalm him and store him and boom, a new boy toy for a week or so. I'd just suggested we leave when my cellphone chirped. The screen said 'unknown number'.

"Hello?" I asked, making an apologetic face to Skylar.

" ...Corey?" A familiar voice croaks.

"Mr. Trotsky?" I ask. Mr. Trotsky and I had kept in touch even after I'd purchased the funeral home from him eight years prior. We sometimes got lunch and visited. Really, the man was like an uncle to me.

"Corey...I need help." He didn't sound well.

"What's wrong? Do you need me to call 911?" I asked.

"No!" He said firmly, sounding much stronger for a moment. "No. I ... I am at my cabin in Monty Lake. I-I am at 5 Squirrel Dr. I can trust you?" He asked. He sounded weak and afraid.

"Yes, sir. Are you okay?" Skylar shifts uncomfortably in his seat across from me.

"I'm sick. And I've done something bad. I need you." He grunts and then lets out a pained moan.

"5 Squirrel Dr in Monty Lake? I'm 90 minutes from there I'm coming." I tell him, panicked.

"You're a good girl, Corey." The line cuts off. I sit for a moment not moving before grabbing my purse and putting the phone away, looking for my keys.

"So, ... are we going to ..." Skylar asks.

I pull out my wallet and hand him $300 dollars.

"Get a hooker and fuck her stupid. You'll be better off for it, kid. Take care." I leave him like that and exit the restaurant.

In my car I take the time to program my GPS and take off, going 10 miles over the speed limit. I'd not known Mr. Trotsky had a cabin. At 84 years old he didn't seem like the type to have the strength to maintain an out of town property. I don't really think of it as I drive. I'm too frightened for my friend and mentor's life. The drive passes surprisingly quickly and I find his cabin easily. I'm suddenly taken back at the size of it. Mr. Trotsky must be extremely well off, as he has over an acreage of land deep in the woods. No wonder he sold the funeral home to me so cheaply.

I park my car in the driveway behind his and make my way inside. As I open the door I call out into the darkness. I groaned reply guides me through the darkness of the living room and around the corner. Down the hall a lamp is on in the far bedroom and I enter. Inside, Mr. Trotsky is laying on the floor. It looks like he had managed to pull a pillow from the bed down to rest his head on and had tugged the phone from his night stand.

"Corey." He says, smiling.

I run to him and collapse. I reach for my purse, about to call 911 when he waves me off.

"Pish posh." He starts. "None of that."

"Mr. Trotsky, what happened?"

He chuckles. "I think I had a heart attack."

I begin reaching for my phone again. "We need to get you to a hospital."

He weakly takes hold of my arm to stop me. "Not yet." He says.

"Why not?"

He takes a deep breath. "I need you to dispose of something for me. In there," he points to his closet, "and in my trunk. Maybe you won't, but I think maybe you will."

"What is it?" I ask.

He gives me a week smile but there is fear in his eyes. "Go see."

For a moment I think maybe I'll ignore him and call an ambulance for him anyway. The pleading look on his face convinces me not to. I stand and go over to his closet. It takes me a moment to realize the back wall is partially hanging open and is actually a secret door way. I push it open, revealing stairs behind. There is a light switch in the stairwell, I flick it on and descend.

The small cement basement beneath the house that the stairs lead to is meticulously organized. A cork board along the back wall holds knives and whips and tools such as hammers and clamps. A small table and chair occupy the centre of the room. Against the wall to the side of the room are three cages. In two of them are a pair of unconscious girls. One is stripped to her white panties and the other is nude and looks to have a number of scars and bruises.

I process everything very slowly. Mr. Tortsky is sex killer? I'm not disgusted by the thought, I mean, we've all experimented at least once. For me it was Josh and Kevin. I'd tried hurting Josh before I killed him and with Kevin I'd tried killing and bringing him back. It's not that I disapprove or anything, I can see the appeal, but it wasn't for me.

I walk over to the far wall and start taking everything down. Whips, clamps, pliers, everything. I take an armful upstairs with me and am greeted by a smiling Mr. Trotsky.

"You're a good girl, Corey." He says, meekly.

"I need a duffle bag, Mr. Trotsky. Do you have something like that?" I ask, shifting the things in my arms so I don't drop anything.

"In the hall closet."

I leave the bedroom and place everything by the front door. The duffle bag is large and has some jogging clothes in it. I dump them out and put his tools into them. I kick off my heels and take off the black dress I was wearing for my date so I don't ruin them and make two more trips to get all the tools from the wall. Mr. Trotsky's eyes bulge in surprise as he sees me enter the bedroom in sheer black lingerie panties and bra. I don't mind. Actually, I'm a little flattered. When I'm done I can barely lift the bag to my car, but I manage to put it into the back seat. I take out the sneakers I keep in my trunk and put them on and then take my sedative case. When I return to the basement I stick a needle in the unconscious girl's neck, ensuring she remain out cold the next 12 hours. Unless Mr. Trotsky gave her something, in which case she'll probably die right now. The other girl, with the scars and bruises is already dead.

"Where's the keys to the cages?" I ask Mr. Trotsky when I return upstairs.

"Top drawer." He says, pointing to his dresser.

Inside it I find his socks, the keys and a scrap book. Flipping through it quickly I notice that it's filled with newspaper clippings. There is another below it. I take them both out and place them on the bed.

"Do you want me to take these with me?" I ask him gently.

He nods. "You're not mad with me, Corey."

"No, Mr. Trotsky. You're family." I tell him with a small smile.

A tear falls from his eye. "I- ... When you first started working for me ... I thought that maybe I would take you. I wanted to do many things to you for a long time. But I liked you so I didn't." He explained, great shame escaping his voice.

It's very touching.

"I took a girl that looked like you instead. I hurt her many times for a year. I let her kill herself afterwards. And then I did more bad things to her afterwards. It helped make sure I didn't do anything to you." He finally raises his eyes to meet mine. By his expression he is surprised by my smile.

"That's very sweet of you." I tell him.

A nervous smile touches his lips. "You're like me, yes? You do bad things? You like the dead, I think?" I nod. "Are you the Honey Pot Killer?" I nod again. "May I ask...how many?"

I crouch down to speak with him on the same level. "29, sir. Tonight was going to be 30, buuuut ..."

"Tsk. I'm sorry." He said. A pained look then passes across his face, knitting his brow for a long moment.

"Mr. Trotsky, do you have any screw drivers? I can take apart the table and chair and put them out back. That way it will just look like discarded lumber. I can't do anything about the cages, but I can clean the room."

He nods. "Tool shed out back. And there is bleach in the laundry room."

I give a reassuring squeeze of his shoulder and then go downstairs and unlock the cage. I take the unconscious girl up the stairs. With effort I drag her to my car and manage to put her into my trunk. The dead girl is easier as Mr. Trotsky seems to have starved her. The tool shed outback is easy enough to find and I take a power drill and an extension cord with me to the basement. The table and chair come apart easily and I manage to get it out back. Scrubbing the basement takes the longest, but I try and get rid of any traces of evidence. When I'm done I'm covered in sweat and smell like a chemical toilet but no trace exists of what the room once was. I return upstairs with my cleaning bucket I notice immediately that Mr. Trotsky isn't breathing.

I cry, but I don't really want to talk about it.

Before I leave I take a shower to get the smell of bleach off of me. I also take the pillow from behind Mr. Trotsky's head and place it back on the bed, posing him to look as if he had died on the floor with the phone in his hand. On my way out I wipe any surface I may have touched before dressing and leave. I take the cleaning bucket and the towel I used with me. It's 2:30 AM on Thursday when I'm 20 minutes outside of town, so no one is around to see when I stop and throw the bucket, towel and duffel bag off a bridge and into a river.

At the funeral home I park behind the rear door. The building blocks any view on one side of my car and the hearse the other, the back is a chain link fence with ivy growing on it and train tracks on the other side, so there's no one to see me move the girls inside.

I manage to get the unconscious girl onto the mortuary table before taking the dead girl down the hall to the crematorium. I leave her inside without turning the machine on as it's too early to legally operate the machine. And the last thing I need right now is someone coming to give me a visit.

I return to the unconscious girl, needle in hand and ready to give her a lethal dose when her eyes flicker open. She should be asleep for another two hours or so.

"Where am I?" She asks, small chest beginning to heave with panic. She tries to sit up but is too weak and her head falls back down to the steel slab.

"You're safe." I tell her reassuringly, dropping the needle out of her sight. "What's you're name, honey?"

"Susan." She answers. She begins to cry. "Is he gone?" I nod. "He-he- ...." her cries take over.

I pat her shoulder. "What happened, honey?" I ask, genuinely interested.

She takes a moment to gather herself before continuing. "He seemed lost. Like he didn't know who he was. I tried to help him but he hit me. I woke up in a cage. There was another girl there. She said that-" The girls cries over take her for a moment, but she presses on. "She said that he tortures you. And rapes you. She said she was there for months. And when he gets tired of you he kills you. But not before he kidnaps a new girl." Her voice grows cold and strong for a moment with the memory of the event. "She said that the old girl tells the new girl what it's like. She told me to do whatever he said to do because he'd kill you after only a few months." She dissolves into tears again, lost in her own horror.

I let her cry. Her arms wrap around herself as she continued to cry. I judge her to be either 19 or 20 years old. Her had medium length brown hair would have framed her face well, a good match for her small frame. She had small breasts with pale pink, puffy nipples. Her body was slim without being fit. As she wiped away the tears from her face I noticed she had pink nail polish. Mr. Trotsky certainly had good taste in girls.

"Can I go, is my family here?" Susan asks. Maybe she thinks she was in a hospital.

"They're outside." I lie. "I'm going to give you something to calm down and then I'll send them in." I tried to sound reassuring. I quickly moved the needle into her neck and pressed the plunger, emptying it into her vein.

"Wait, n-" She started, moving to stop me. Her breath seized in the throat. I watched as her eyes widened in panic. I really wish she had been asleep for this. It would feel like she was on fire from the inside out as she went into cardiac arrest.

I put a calming hand on her chest and rubbed it gently. "Shhh, shh, shh, shh. It's okay. It's okay. There you go." I said in what I hoped was a calming voice.

A look of fear and betrayal replaced the look of pain on her face before going slack as she died. I continued, gently rubbing her chest in an empty gesture of reassurance as I waited for her bowels to void. But they don't. Perhaps Mr. Trotsky hadn't fed her in a few days. That was nice, then. No fuss no muss.

I stop rubbing her chest and simply lay my hand between her breasts, feeling her grow cold. She really was a beautiful young girl now that she was so peaceful and still. It's just a shame she's the one on my table instead of Skylar. I think of him and what I'd wanted for this night instead. A frustrated tingle runs through my pelvis and I moisten, thinking of the night I'd planned. It'd been so long since I'd last had an intimate encounter.

My eyes return to Susan. Her pretty face. Her pretty breasts. I feel a tingle again. My hand, still on her chest, hesitantly moves to her breast. My palm covers her nipple and my fingers wrap around her soft flesh. A pleasant warmth spreads outwards from between my legs as my juices begin to flow. I bite my lip thinking the situation over. I've never been with a girl before. It's not something I'd ever considered. I continue to massage her breast, enjoying what touching her is making me feel.

Before I change my mind I unzip my dress and step out of it and my shoes. In my shear panties and bra lingerie I feel sexy and naughty in a way I haven't felt in years. Not since my first boyfriend saw me like this.

"You' re very pretty, Susan." I tell her. My hand slowly leaves her breast and continues down along her body. "Very ... sexy."

I reach her simple white panties and nervously toy with the hem for a moment. I reach down with both hands and slide them down her smooth legs and drop them to the floor. She'd trimmed her pubic hair into a small triangle at the top of her slit. My hand continues to her thigh and I press against it, parting her legs a bit as I slide my body onto the slab, draping her legs over my shoulders. I kiss her thigh gently, smiling devilishly as I enjoy the sensation of being between a woman's legs. I kiss her thigh again, my tongue making contact with the soft skin a moment before my lips. I can definitely see the appeal of this.

I close my eyes as I kiss further up her thigh until my lips feel the invisible stubble of her pubis. I open my eyes, confronting the beautiful sight of her partially parted labia.

"Okay, baby." I hum to her as my lips and tongue push against her gently. I clamp my mouth onto her like that and let my tongue push out, as I take a long, sensuous lap along her slit. I repeat the action again, more forcefully, as I greedily enjoy the feel of eating my first pussy. My chin grinds into her slit and my nose into her small clit as I try and lap deeper and deeper into her. My flutter open and closed as I face fuck the pretty corpse and her delicious cunt. All the while my own pussy flows in excitement, aching for release.

Soon I raise my head with a devilish smile spread across my face.

"Fuck, baby." I say in a self satisfied way. "You taste great. Too bad you can't return the favour." I laugh.

I retreat from between her legs and pull my sopping panties off and then climb on top of her, straddling her thigh. I'm so hot for her, I need to cum while fucking her. My aching, self lubricated vagina presses against her thigh. I begin to slowly grind my hips, sliding my pussy along her thigh and into her vagina. My body's reaction is intense and immediate. Like a tsunami far out to sea I can see the wave of my own orgasm fast approaching, ready to crash against me. I speed up my hips, no longer sensually making love to the dead girl. I begin fucking her out of a primal need for release. I grab up her other leg and drape it over my shoulder so that I can more easily hit my pussy hungrily against hers. The wet slap of our bodies ring of the steel instruments around us as an intense pleasure over takes me Reaching up I grab hold of my own breast with my free hand and viciously dig my nails into myself. I cry out in a pleasure so intense it's almost painful.

My stiff body takes many moments to begin obeying my commands again. I immediately being grinding myself down into her again. The orgasm was intense and now I have a taste for it. Greedily I seek another. I let go of my breast and reach over, taking my dead slut's breast desperately, needing the deliciously tender flesh. My pussy juices coat her thigh, so that my cunt glides along with ease. Over and over again I pump my pussy into her open slit, feeling another orgasm approach. I let of my lover's breast as my hand seeks it's way between my legs. As I fuck her pussy with min I begin to rub my clit. The pleasure is overwhelming and hurries the next orgasm into shocking my. The breath in my lungs escapes as if I'd just been tackled to the ground as I scream out in pleasure. My body shakes in pleasure three or four times before I go limp and fall into her.

Heaving for air I press my face to her chest, my entire body both extremely numb and ridiculously sensitive all at once.

"Oh my god, Susan. It's never been like that." I pant. Suddenly I panic and am struck with a sudden concern. I leave my dead lover like that on the slab as I hurry to gather my embalming equipment. I need to keep her fresh for as long as possible.

***

The next day is a slow day, with only a bit of paper work to do, so I sleep in until noon. Instead of going home I'd instead crawled into one of my coffins in the show room and slept there. At my desk now, absently flip through Mr. Trotsky's scrap books while I purposely ignore my paper work.

Most of the clippings in the first book are about missing girls and two serial killers called the 'The Seaside Ripper' and 'The Baker Forest Butcher'. Mr. Trotsky appeared to be both. The clippings went as far back as the early 60's. I'm fascinated with the clippings, reading about how the bodies found showed signs of long term abuse. He had been at it a long time. The last few clippings were about the Honey Pot Killer. Mr. Trotsky was a a sentimental sweet heart after all. I missed him very much.

The other scrap book was similar to the fist, but carried fewer clippings that were all much older. They were about a serial killer called 'The Wolf'. Searching online I found a short description of him. The Wolf had been a relatively famous serial killer in the late 40's and 50's in the eastern part of the state. Doing the math in my head makes it obvious that it couldn't have been Mr. Trotsky. Possibly a mentor, then. It's amazing the legacy you can be part of without ever knowing it.

I close down the page and put away the scrap books. I'll keep them with my photo album. I reach for my paper work as my mind drifts to the photo album and the new Polaroid of Susan in it. The two of us cuddling together, our foreheads romantically touching. My body beings to react with the thought. We'd made love again after I'd embalmed her. She was sitting in the storage fridge right now. With nothing covering her nude body save for a simple sheet. The minx. I've never felt this way before for anyone.

My work left forgotten on my desk, I make my way back to the mortuary, desperate for my cold lover's icy touch.

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