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Matt couldn�t sleep so he decided to take a walk. It was 2 a.m. and the night was foggy, damp and cold. His stroll took him alongside an iron fence that ran along the road. Tucked inside, weathered headstones were barely visable above tall weeds and unkempt grass. Curious and bored, he found the gate and stepped inside. He wound his way toward the back of the graveyard, scanning the faces of the stones. There was a full moon and a lot of the stones he could plainly read. Near the back was one off by itself. He approached it and squinted at the name. Myra, with no last name. He thought about that, looking the gravesite over. The headstone was quite large, apparently someone cared about her at one time. There were no dates on the stone either. Odd, he thought to himself.
He leaned against the stone, and gazed up into the moon. There was a soft breeze blowing and the fog curled around the stones like smoky fingers. He suddenly felt the sensation of something sliding up his left leg. He looked down, expecting a snake. His heart was thumping heavily in his chest. Instead of a snake a hand was sliding it�s way from his ankle to his knee. It was pale as milk, slender, attached to an arm that was elegant and frail. It was reaching up from out of the grave! He was rooted to the spot, at first in fear, then curious as the form rose and more of the body was revealed. In life she must have been beautiful. A finely structured face appeared, with full lips and intense eyes. Another hand emerged, finding its way up his other leg and moving up and down his jeans. His breath grew hot and heavy as he got harder and harder. He didn�t think it was possible but he could FEEL her, rubbing him, squeezing, teasing.
She pouted a little, a sigh of a moan escaping her lips. He couldn�t believe it but she wanted him! He looked around sheepishly, thinking the cops were just pulling in or the whole thing was an elaborate hoax and someone was going to stumble out from behind a gravestone laughing at him. The fog crawled along the ground and an owl hooted in a nearby tree, and he was utterly alone. With Myra.
She continued to rise, her hands moving over his body wantonly, hungry. She was in a flowing robe, cinched at the waist. She had a full bust, supple breasts. She loosened the sash, exposing them to him and smiling mischievously. Tentatively, he reached out to see if he could feel her. There was palpable cold air, but she arched her back as if his warmth was pleasing to her. He reached down and undid his jeans, releasing his rock hard cock. She knelt down and he felt his cock become enveloped in cold. He felt feather light tickling and suckling, his balls were being rolled in smooth, cold hands. He held onto the tombstone as she worked him with her mouth, her tongue, looking up at him with those intense, deep eyes. He began to get close to climax and she stopped, and stepped back from him. She let the robe drop and stood before him, naked and perfect. She began fingering her nipples, watching him. She dropped a hand to her crotch, massaging her clit. The moon bathed her in silvery light as she stroked harder, faster, slipping her fingers inside then returning to massage her clit. He had begun stroking himself watching her, there was no stopping now he had to cum. She moaned and shuddered, then dropped to her knees before him again. She took him back in her mouth and he shot his load, barely noticing it went through her and exited the back of her head. He closed his eyes and caught his breath. When he opened them he was alone completely, and the damp night prickled his bare skin. He redressed and walked back home.
The next day, he went to the library and asked to see the records of the families in the cemetery. An old woman fetched them for him, giving him an odd look. When he found nothing on Myra, he asked the librarian.
�It�s the grave near the back, there�s only a first name. Do you know anything about her?�
The librarian gave him a foul look and said, �Enough. She died about 80 years ago in a house that used to be located behind where the cemetery is now. She was killed by a man, strangled.�
�House? What house?� He realized the woman was referring to his own home.
�The white one. Good riddance to bad rubbish; her, and all that were housed there.�
�What are you talking about?�
�That house was a brothel. She was a whore,� the old woman spat.
Then, he understood.
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