He Cums in Mourning

The graveyard in the morning is usually a quiet place, safe for the annoyances of sunrise burials. Like today. But something is different about the group—only three people, no priest, no wailing... quiet.

They don't know you're watching, probably, since they're digging into the casket and bringing something up to their mouths. Eating.

You hope they'll be quick about it. Once it gets too bright, for you, the morning ends.

"(Mmm.)"

Oh? He's here. The ghost never shows himself to others, but today must be special indeed. Cold, dead hands touch your warm arms, then grip them with iron-clad ferocity.

He drags you deeper into the shadow of the giant tree overlooking the graveyard. It's not much coverage for anyone who pays a little more attention. The ghost knows that, but somehow doesn't care today.

"Be gentle," you try. But fingers stab through the back of your head and still your tongue in an icy hold.

He doesn't need to remove your clothes. His stony cock ghosts through your underwear and grinds itself on your hole.

The group below slows down its eating.

You moan out a warning, but the ghost grips for tongue tighter. It hurts. It fucking hurts. And usually it doesn't. Only sometimes, when you've pissed him off, but today feels unwarranted.

His cock begins to press in, and you whimper. You're not ready.

The people turn. They see you.

The ghost doesn't stop. Surely it must see, must know.

Even so far away, the group's eyes feel like they're seeing everything. The way you writhe, the way you let yourself be used, the way you move your hips for more even when it hurts.

The people walk up the hill and tears well at the corner of your eyes as the icy cock pumps faster. By the time their bodies join the shade, you're moaning.

The ghost remains, doesn't stop. Can they see him? Can't everyone?

Red paints their mouths, blank stares on their faces.

They don't wear black, now that you see them up close. Two men and a woman in grays, if you had to guess. One of the men nudges at your face with his dirty boot, and you'd yell at him if you could.

The ghost arches your ass up, and his cock fucks deeper. His hand finally leaves your tongue, only to open your mouth wide, hand scratching at your skull.

Oh. You see now. The small resemblance in the their broad noses, the angular shape of their faces, and the full bottom lips.

Just like the ghost.

You close your eyes and let your body become a pyre.