Wandering the mundane landscapes of Paradise, both liberated by and trapped within their Everlasting Reward, the departed legends of history suck and fuck each other like there is no tomorrow. Though, in fact, there are nothing but tomorrows.
A Lake of Fire, Chapter One
It was a mild day in Heaven, but then all days in Heaven were ‘mild’ – warm, with a light breeze, birdsong, the smell of not-too-distant meadows. Mild. And utterly boring.
Dr. Martin Luther King was ready for some hot action. He was now fully engorged and congratulated himself for having already slipped a condom over his penis before getting dressed that morning. It was a trick he had learned from JFK, which significantly cut down on the distractions of clumsily unwrapping the thing and sheathing one’s pecker in the moment. Of course, it hadn’t prevented the President from contracting syphilis on Earth, or from spreading his extensive catalogue of STDs through the Afterlife.
King had made some progress on his memoirs and now rose from his desk, stretched, and aimed a solid slap at his bulging pants. ‘Down boy! Down!’ he chuckled. The breeze slipped through his office window, perfumed with lavender that he imagined rested in dewy drops on soft necks and breasts in the village outside.
Somebody was going to get fucked.
Of course, King had always been lucky in his pursuits, in both this life and the previous one. Even the night before he received his magic bullet in Memphis, he had heard the young women giggling outside his motel room. He smiled to remember the prickles running thrillingly up his neck, listening to them tease and dare each other to knock at the door. Vietnam had been on the television. White wine had chilled in a bucket beside his bed.
Now things were almost too simple. Heaven, with its everlasting rewards, was a playground for the kind-hearted, still confounded and tortured by their own morals and inhibitions. Many of them had spent a lifetime fighting their own urges, futilely struggling to save a few fellow humans that (they would later realize) were only hairy skin bags, full of soggy organs. Now they knew that no one can be saved. They, like all the other skin bags, were nothing more than self-important harvest grounds for worm food. Coffin fillers. The temporary vessels for skeletons that would one day anchor down trees, roots knotting through their naked ribs and skulls.
Their winged souls ascended to the Sweet Hereafter, where King waited, hard and ready as a humming power tool.
Stooped over her garden, tending her blossoms like a doting schoolmarm, Princess Diana was the first of King’s forays that morning. He tackled her from the side and she exhaled a long, satisfied breath, betraying immediately that she had already spotted – and waited – for his assault. He knocked her down in the grass. His big palms pushed into her face and tits, before he found the buttons of her trousers and she felt them nearly torn off her body.
He was not much of a gentleman, but King knew how quickly things could become unbearable if no attention was paid to lubrication. Diving down with predatory speed, he stripped Diana’s underwear from her flailing legs, and his wide tongue found the furry mound and soft folds between her thighs. She gasped involuntarily, her back arching in both pleasure and shock. He was going to take her right there on the ground, like two dogs heaving and pumping among embarrassed onlookers. She squirmed. King lapped and spit at her flesh, his fingers roughly spreading her open. His other hand squeezed the steel rod in his pants hard, until it seemed like it would crack. Diana heard a belt buckle open. A zipper. The shuffle of fabric. And then he was inside.
King laughed silently. The condom made him feel like a teenager, fumbling with limbs and lips in cars at drive-in movies. So happy to be inside, pushing and retracting this piston for the shell shocked Princess. She looked to him like some porcelain figurine that someone had hurled out the window. But then, to his surprise, she came to life: ‘Give me that big dong’, she growled, ‘Put it up in my hole!’ King smiled, sweat beginning to drip from his brow. He gave it to her, digging the toes of his shoes into the soil and heaving into her like a bull against a fencepost. His ears were ringing, but he could feel the sun on his neck. It was good.
He was at full reach now, the head of his cock making real contact with Diana’s cervix. They both felt the entire length of each other – an aching, burning node within a universe that seemed infinite with tragedy. Bullet holes. Smoldering car wrecks. Riots and cracked skulls. Famine in Africa.
They fucked.
King knew she was close now. The look of animal confusion came into her eyes that he had seen on so many faces, so many women sensing the specter of climax creeping into their very being. He planted his hand beside her, exploring down with the other and pushing his thumb into the wet ball of clitoris. Diana shuttered and it came, electric and frantic through her flapping, doll’s body. She huffed, cheeks red like she was cresting a summit. He felt the familiar slickness grow around his shaft as she poured out juice for him. Looking down on her, he saw how truly beautiful she was… a woman that people had cheered and followed like madmen. But here, pinned beneath King on this gentle lawn, she was girlish and honey-sweet, as she had surely been in life.
Then his own stomach quaked and his balls tightened. The jizz came in torrents, pulsing into the condom and making it heavy with liquid. ‘Aaaaaaaagggghhh!’ he roared, and somewhere a dog started barking. The release spread over him. ‘Oh yeah,’ Diana called to him, ‘gimme that hot load!’ Their eyes locked as he clenched and the last of it squeezed from his buzzing nuts.
The breeze returned, undemanding but fully real, blessedly cooling his steaming back and buttocks. King detached himself, pulling out and slipping the wet rubber from his deflating cock. He watched, amused, as the thick cum settled in the tip, and then flung the thing into her rosebushes, where it hung, a discarded membrane.
King stood and stuffed himself back into his clothes. Hitching up his pants, he did not even look down at the Princess before he marched out of the yard. It was time for breakfast, and he felt like pancakes.