Torn nudity. Eroguro tales of the Macabre

Beyond the threshold

Her union ended before it even began. He was drawn away from the wedding night to fight in distant lands, in a war that was not his, which dragged on longer than it should, as all wars do. She watched her youth wither away in an unreal wait, and when they brought his shattered body to her, her heart could not bear it.

They say that on every 1st of November, the souls of the departed who left behind unfinished business wander the paths they traveled in life, hoping to resolve the unfinished crossroads and finally achieve rest. He and she searched for each other among the floods of souls; however, they were unable to find one another, and at dawn, they always watched their hopes dissipate along with their bodies.

One Night, the Good Death took pity on them and traced a path in the stars for them to follow so they could come together. They found themselves on the edge of a cliff, where only the full moon —too busy playing among the waves— could spy on them.

They gazed at each other timidly, doubting whether the other would still love them after the decades that had passed. He looked at the remnants of what had once been his vigorous body, now hanging in tatters and unable to cover his bones. She bowed her head so that the sparse hair she had left, once so bright and full of vitality, now thin and brittle, covered a face that was hardly more than a skull. Only shadows bore witness to the delicate embroidery on the fabrics they wore, and the garments themselves seemed to scorn the ruin they had become —rags not even enough to hide the shame of those who wore them.

It was she who took the initiative, taking his hand and placing it over her chest. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he felt the beats of a heart silenced too soon. When her free hand brushed aside his hair, the moon paused its frolicking in the sea to cast a furtive glance and let a silver kiss fall on her face, disguising the ravages of decay and giving it some serenity and a certain beauty. She turned her empty sockets toward him.

"I have searched for you for countless nights, but I was unsure if I wanted you to see me like this."

"I didn't know how you would react either. The years haven't been kind to me," he laughed.

The woman tightened the man's hand even more against her chest, and a bony finger caressed the spot where her nipple should have been. The torso rose and fell to the rhythm of a breath that, after a long time of stillness, was now happening again, and small sighs of pleasure slipped between her teeth.

"I wish you had touched me when I was alive. My body is now cold and falling apart."

"You are perfect. I always thought you were, and I always thought you would be."

Unable to contain himself, he buried his face in her neck while tearing away what little remained of her dress. Reflexively, she covered her bare breasts while whispering to him:

"Slowly, love, you're going to rip my skin."

As he began to tear at her throat, she pushed him away, and before he could protest, she knelt before him. It had been a long time since vermin had devoured his virility; however, a ghostly erection burned in his gut. She said nothing; she knew her femininity had also been cruelly tainted by decay, and she buried her face between his thighs while holding his waist and opening her mouth as if she was indeed receiving an erect penis. Moaning with pleasure, he grabbed her hair in a fist and moved her head to indicate the rhythm. His free hand once again sought, hungry, for the breasts of his beloved and squeezed them passionately, causing the fragile tissue to tear away. There were no complaints; she had sunk her fingers into his groin and exposed her pelvis.

With a brutality he could not control, he threw her to the ground and climbed onto her body. She gasped and awaited him with her back arched forward. They joined their mouths with passion and intertwined their legs, pressing against each other as if they wanted to merge. It mattered little that their sexual organs had disappeared, that they had no tongues to convey their flavors, or that, with each embrace, parts of themselves fell away. They released all the flame they had stoked during so many nights of fruitless searching. And, as if by a miracle, hot liquids spilled among the thighs of her, and the vertigo of an orgasm threatened to consume them.

The next morning, at the cliff, an area of about two square meters remained charred. Nothing could ever grow there; however, when the Night of the Dead coincides with the full moon, she sheds dew tears on the blackened grasses. But those tears are tears of happiness.