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NECRO SUTRA

Kevin Sweeney

Black Rainbows Press

Copyright © 2022 Kevin Sweeney

All nghts reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced
or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of
the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is
a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and
incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a
fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or
actual events is purely coincidental.

Black Rainbows Press

www.blackrainbowspress.com
For Simon McHardy & Sean Hawker
“THE IMPORTANT thing to remember when fucking a corpse is to
leave the face alone... unless you know you can get away with it, in which
case you can have a lot of fun making some really cool new orifices.”

He adjusted the camera, made double certain it was recording.

“Relatives might want to look upon their loved ones one last time
right up until they go in the ground or the crem. If they notice that granny
has an eye missing where you scooped the socket clean to fuck her in the
frontal lobe, they are going to be a bit upset.”

He grinned. But he was wearing a mask, which prevented his facial

expression underlining his dry wit.

He glanced at the clock. He knew he was going to have to be quick. If

his father caught him...

He clapped his hands together, business like.

“Okay,” he told his followers. “You are watching Django Mann, the
Cadaver Cassonova, and that was my top tip for neks today... but I know
you don't come here just to benefit from my hard eamed wisdom in the
practicalities... you're here for my next few entries in the Necro Sutra!”

kk

A whole family had come in.

A faulty boiler. No carbon monoxide alarm. Mummy, daddy, and little

girl had all gone to bed and not woken up.

Silently, quietly smothered to death.

They were all flawless.

Perfect.

* hE

Not used to running the set-up alone, he paused the recording and
double checked everything that the digital cameras were in focus and
framing everything just right, that the mics were ready to pick up every pant
and squelch...

He thought he heard a noise.

He stopped what he was doing and listened.

The funeral home's morgue was quiet, save for the hum of the
refrigeration unit.

Was it a floorboard creak above him?

Had father got out of bed?

Listening...

Nothing else.

His heart was beating fast. It made his cock even harder.

With one last check of the equipment, he made sure his lovers were
ready and got back to making the latest episode.

Eke

He had lost his virginity on the first day he had started work with his
father.

Most people would have called it harsh for a boy of only twelve to
start learning the family business, but his father thought otherwise. He even
got the sign changed to reflect the future.

MANN & SON, FAMILY FUNERAL DIRECTORS: WE TAKE

CARE

“That's the service we provide,” said his father. “We take care. We
take care for those left by taking care of those who have gone.”

She had been twenty two.

A motorbike. A drunk driver.

It had been a lot of work, taking care of her; washing the limbs and
face and hair, settling her features into a look of peaceful repose, dressing
the body in the clothes her distraught father had selected for her.

...and late that night, after a day of taking care of her, she had taken
care of him.

Young love.

kk%

He screwed the wrist into the vice so that the hand was held out
horizontally, almost like it was ready to shake.

He fitted a hole-saw bit to the electric drill, the kind used for boring
holes in wood, a cup shaped thing with saw teeth around its business edge.

He pressed it into the palm and buzzed straight through, scrims of

cold flesh and jellied blood and fragments of bone spitting everywhere.
When finished, there was a ragged circular hole in the middle of the
corpse’s palm.

He freed his erection.

His cock was enormous, a prehistoric looking thing of bloated meat

and veins and skin that looked ready to burst. It jutted up past his navel, a
ferocious red tusk with a glistening purple tp.

“Entry number twenty seven in the Necro-Sutra,” he explained, one

hand wrapped around the root of his organ, the other around the cold wrist
of the daddy. “The Jesus Hand Job.”

He brought the holed palm down on the tip of his cock, an inch of the
shiny purple helmet sticking out through the back of the hand for a moment,
and then pulled the wrist downwards.

When a third of his length was through he released the wrist.

The hand was impaled on him.

He pumped his hips, letting another four inches slide up through the
stigmata, one eye on the reversed view finder of the camera to check what it
looked like.

“The problem with cadaver loving has always been the lack of
participation from the other party,” he explained. “And for the longest time
something as simple as a hand job was an impossibility. But now, thanks to

a little DIY stigmata, an post-mortem knuckle shuffle is entirely possible!”

He always liked to start with something a bit light hearted and fun.

*¥k¥

He knew he was different, and had from time to time wondered

whether his sexuality was a direct resort of the family manse and business
being that of a funeral home, or if it was just good luck.

But even though he was more comfortable around the dead than the
living —and certainly was only aroused by flesh in which the pulse had
stilled- he found himself seemingly alone.

kw

“Entry number twenty eight makes use of the hole saw once more.”

Hefting the electric drill in both hands, he carefully positioned the

drill bit so that the cup of the hole-saw framed the daddy’s belly button.
Then he pulled the trigger and bored a hole into the corpse’s flabby belly.
The middle-age spread jiggled crazily as the rotating saw teeth chewed in.
Skin and congealed blood and streaks of yellow subcutaneous fat fanned
out in a spiral across the wobbling gut.

The drill was quite hefty, and sank in right up to the chuck before he
let go of the trigger and pulled it free with a small wet pop.

He clambered onto the gumey with the corpse, both hands wrapped
around his magnificent inches.

“This one is called Up To Your Nuts In Guts!™

Using himself as a spear, he plunged his glans into the ragged hole
which had once been a belly button.

He shivered.

Grinned at the camera.

“Cold!” he said. He moaned in pleasure, and sank half his cock into
the corpse’s intestines. “Oh yes...” Like fucking a shopping bag full of
sausages. Sticky, blackish blood squirted up around his shaft.

The corpse farted.

He pounded it for a few minutes more, trying not to giggle every time
decaying gas was forced out of the dry rectum.

Eventually, he pulled himself free, dragging thirteen inches of hard

erectile tissue out of the corpse’s belly.

The putrid blood was as good as petroleum jelly as far as lubrication

went, and he kept himself at full mast by squeezing and rubbing his colossal
cock as he addressed the cameras once more.

“And then we immediately go into entry number twenty nine in the

Necro-Sutra!”

With his free hand, he made a spear point with all his fingers and
plunged them into the gaping wound. Once in, he rummaged around until
he was able to get a firm grasp, and then pulled out a length of greasy,
purplish intestine.

He hauled out a foot length of cold and slippery digestive tract, then
another, then another. He kept tugging it out and laying it in coils on the
corpse’s crotch like it was rope, and then when he had enough, he suddenly
looped a length of it over his head and woun it around his neck.

And pulled tight.

He struggled for breath. His eyes bulged.

He kept wanking.
“Number twenty nine,” he wheezed. *Auto-Erotic Entrail
Asphyxiation!™

Choking himself with the daddy's intestines, he furiously

masturbated.

When he came he nearly passed out.

Thick ribbons of ivory coloured semen squirted from the gasping slit
of his glans, jetting into the air and coming apart to fall like fat pearls ail
over the morgue floor.

LE]

Pornhub, MyDirtyHobby, MommysGirl. Mofos Network, RedTube,

TeamSkeet, Lucy-V, Dog Fart Network, TSplayground, The White Boxxx,
DesiPapa, YouPorn, 21Sextury, Brazzers, Chaturbate, XNXX, MrSkin,
Round And Brown, BimBim, CumPets, AuntJudys, Oye Loca, Shop Lyfter,
Digital Playground, SexAlArab, Her Limit, WhyNotBi, ScanCody,
xHamster...

A thousand others.

It seemed every kind of copulation, every kink, combination, or

colouring of camality had terabytes of content freely available on the
internet... except his.

Even people who fantasised fucking cartoon characters had

communities.

dE

The little girl's body was lying face down on her gumey, her tiny
white buttocks spread to reveal the pucker of her anus.

“Position number thirty is something I call Threading The Needle,”

he told the camera.

His arm was already well slathered in petroleum jelly. All the way to
the elbow.

He stuck two fingers up the corpse's rectum.

Then three.

Then four.

He sank them in up to the second knuckle, then tucked his thumb into
his palm, braced himself, and shoved his whole hand in up to the wrist.

He made a face of concentration.

“Hang on,” he told the watching camera and, by proxy, his viewers.
“Just met the first resistance... let me just rip this... ah!”

Something deep inside the little girl's corpse made a muffled tearing
sound, like wet cloth being ripped.

Having torn through some secret membranes, he was able to slide in

up to the midpoint of his forearm.

The rectum split.

“Another little something I have to..." he muttered, his tunnelling

hand working frantically.

There was another muted, muffled sound, but this time it was wetter.

“Ah, we're in business!”

The rest of his forearm arm disappeared into the corpse’ rectum,
right to the elbow so that his skinny bicep was now wedged between her
bum cheeks.

He used his other arm to lift the corpse from the gumey, cradling it
awkwardly until he was able to manoeuvre it around so that it was facing
the camera.

The little girl had a heart shaped black mole at the corner of her
mouth. Her glazed eyes were open, gazing into forever, and her blonde hair
was limp across her forchead.

Her mouth opened.

Bloody fingers wiggled out from between her lips.

Hello!

He had turned the corpse into a puppet.

He tucked his fingers back behind her lips, dragged the body across to
his crotch, and gripped his black-blood slicked cock with the grotesquely
distended mouth.

He wanked himself hard and fast. The girl's hair flopped and flipped
as her face ran up and down his thick shaft like it was a giant meat-
harmonica.

Just as he was about to blow his muck, he cupped the bell end with
her mouth.

He ejaculated.

Semen blasted from the corpse’s nostrils like she had a heavy cold
and was blowing her nose clear of snot.

kok
He found the dark web.

He found Circles, the social network for the deranged, demented, and
depraved.

He found his tribe.

It wasn't long before he became an active participant and a rising star.

He called himself Django Man, started his own circle, and became an
underground sensation as he shared his many lonely years of
experimentation, practical guidance, wisdom, insight, and personal list of
special moves with a small but hungry group of fellow ghouls.

The Necro-Sutra videos blew up.

hE

When he had framed the mummy's pregnant belly just right he

thought he heard another noise above him, in the flat above the funeral
home.

He froze.

Listened.

The noise did not repeat.

Still...

Maybe it would be wisest to stop her for the night. Tidy up and make
good, like nothing had happened.

His father couldn’t catch him like this...

He strained to hear any tiny indication that the old man was moving
about up there.

Nothing.

Probably just tumed over in bed, flipped the pillow to the cool side
and settled down into the next REM cycle...

Anyway, he was too excited to stop.

Number thirty one was too rare an opportunity to pass up.

Even after coming so many times already, his enormous dick was still
rock hard and ready to go. It was twitching with his heart beat,

He bowed to the camera.

“Position number thirty one in the Necro Sutra,” he explained, his

tremulous voice betraying his excitement. “The Matryoshka!™

He produced a trimming knife as if from thin air, the kind with a

segmented blade that you slid up by pushing in a button in the handle. He
extended it by two segments.
He started just above the neatly trimmed triangle of her dark brown
pubic hair, sliced open the skin all the way up to her navel. Yellow
subcutaneous fat glistened in the wound.

He repeated the cut, slicing through the thin layer of insulation to

reveal the weave of muscles beneath.

Once more he cut, digging deeper and having to put some effort into
it this third time, almost sawing through the tougher material.

Decaying blood oozed like sap as she began to pant.

What was revealed in the gash underneath the harsh fluorescent light
was something semi-translucent.

Discarding the blade momentarily, he dug his fingers into each edge
of the huge wound and pulled it apart, unveiling what was within.

It was a sac of membranes with a curled up passenger, almost like a

grub curled within a rotten fruit.

He picked up the blade.

Split the distended womb.

He put the knife down again. It clattered off the edge of the gumey
onto the floor, but he wasn’t paying any attention.

He turned back to the camera.

“Matryoshka,” he said, his voice quivering with excitement. “Or as

we call them, Russian dolls!™

He gripped himself around the root and clambered onto the gumey.

Strictly speaking it would have been better if the foetus had been
female, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

He sighed as he sank in, as if he were lowering a body weary with a

day's work into a hot bath.

Cold. Slimy.

Gorgeous.

He shivered with pleasure.

And then he got down to business.

The camera framed the scene perfectly... including the door ten feet
behind the action, which suddenly opened just as he climaxed.

The gentlemen framed by backlight flooding in from the funeral

home's back corridor looked like an older, wearier version of the gentlemen
skewering what was on the gumey, except his grey hair was not
immaculately swept back but looked tousled as if he had just got out of bed.

The son froze in mid thrust.

The father gazed in shock at the scene before him.

The shock metamorphosed into rage.

“What. The. Fuck. Are. You. Doing?”

Each word was bitten off, every syllable of the rhetorical question
hard and hateful.

The son gaped.

He struggled to get upright, onto his knees.

His crotch reared.

The thing shish-kebabbed on him waved its arms as if it were alive,

though even if had been alive it couldn't have cried out... not with its mouth
crammed so full its cheeks had split all the way to the ears.

“1...” he said, but the words died between his brain and his tongue. He
locked down, He gulped, licked his lips, and tried again. “1 can explain.”

His father’s eyes narrowed.

“You can explain?” he asked. “You can explain? Explain?”

He punched the door frame.

And he roared

“YOU KNOW I HATE SLOPPY SECONDS