My Necrophilia phone sex dungeon reeks of mildew, blood, and decaying flesh. No doubt this air is thick enough to choke and gag. Here I am found, straddling a man’s shattered chest. With my dress hiked up, bare cunt grinding down onto his blood-smeared sternum. This is foreplay.
It’s his weakening heartbeat pulses against my swollen clit like a dying drum, sending jagged spikes of pleasure through my body. As I rock slowly at first, then harder, my slick folds smearing crimson streaks across his skin as arousal floods my dripping hot and slick juices down his sides.
Now I need more and my scalpel bites into his collarbone, carving jagged spirals splitting flesh with crimson streaks. Blood erupts in thick pulses. I then greedily scoop it up. With my fingers plunging into the wound before thrusting them deep into my throbbing pussy.
Three digits now, curling viciously inside me, and hooking against my G-spot. All while the metallic warmth coats my insides.
Each savage stab of the blade makes him convulse. These spasms rock my hips, forcing my fingers deeper, as my inner muscles clenching in rhythmic ecstasy around the intrusion.
Deeper cuts follow—gouging into his abdomen, peeling back layers of muscle in ragged flaps, exposing quivering organs slick with gore. His body bucks in agony, the violent jerks slamming up into her cunt like involuntary thrusts. Hungrily I ride the torment, free hand clawing at my own tits.
While my nails raking my nipples until they bleed, mixing my pain with his in a symphony of ruin.
Immediately, fingers piston faster inside my, blood-lubed and relentless, hole stretching wider as orgasm mounts.
Now I revive him with ammonia’s sharp bite, eyes locking on his terror-glazed stare. And I mount his face.
Necrophilia Phone Sex Makes Me Shudder with Ecstatic Convulsions of Bliss
My blood soaked lips seal over his mouth and nose, suffocating him in my musky heat. His feeble tongue lashes out in panic, flicking against my clit. As I grind down mercilessly, forcing it deeper into my pussy folds while blood from his wounds slickens me more.
Then his drowning desperation vibrates through me. His final gurgles humming against my sensitive nerves like a twisted vibrator.
Continually I grind and fuck his dying face. And I do so with abandon, hips slamming, cunt contracting in brutal waves as climax erupts. Leaving a torrent of squirt gushing over his face, flooding his throat, and drowning him.
Finally dismounting on trembling legs, thighs coated in mingled fluids, I raise the sledgehammer. Wildly, swings crash down—knees exploding in bone shards. His arms pulverized to pulp. Lastly, his skull caving with a wet, final crunch that sprays gray matter across my calves.
Then aftershocks ripple through my pussy, clit still pulsing, as I stroke the jar’s glass. Leading me into gazing at the preserved cock within, already aching to claim the next victim.
Ultimately, Morticia thrives in the fusion: orgasm born of obliteration, violence as the ultimate aphrodisiac.
The altar demands more. Hail Satan
