#slasherfucker

Now for the part you’ve grown desensitized to: the actual autopsy. None was needed; you know exactly how he died. According to the police on the scene, he was found with a television on his cranium. He was murdered.

Methodically picking up your scalpel, you could swear you hear a raspy breath. You know about the hallucinations from people that work with dead bodies, but… this one sounds real.

Pulling back the sheet covering his body, you place a hand on his stomach. Two stab wounds are visible. They’re deep. Deep enough for you to pick up your forceps and open it. You can see subcutaneous fat. Whoever stabbed him cut too deep.

Putting your forceps away, scalpel still in hand, you make the first small cut just above his collarbone. Then between his broad chest. Down to his stomach. Stop at his groin. He must’ve been popular with the girls his age…

Your train of thought is interrupted halfway through the first cut. Interrupted by a blood-curdling scream.

The boy woke up. He’s alive. A medical miracle. He must’ve been in shock from the pain. Someone mispronounced him dead.

“Stu, listen. You’re in a hospital morgue. I’m a doctor. You’re alright,” you attempt to calm the screaming boy, watching as he makes a desperate attempt to get up and run. But his limbs don’t obey, twitching and flailing pathetically. Sounds that can only be compared to a kicked puppy leave his throat, high and sad. You feel ridiculously bad. And sick; this poor kid looks and sounds… and smells… like a zombie.

When he finally musters the strength and the willpower to sit up, drool and blood rolling down his face, pupils dilated and eyes wide in fear is when you finally decide to bandage him.

“This won’t hurt, Stu,” you tell him, as if comforting a startled horse. At that first contact of your warm hands against his clammy stomach, he jumps and makes another sad noise, looking at you with those pathetic teary eyes that just a few minutes ago lacked life. The wound had long since stopped bleeding- all you need to do is close it up. You do so, listening to the sounds he makes. Agony. Questioning. Comfort. When you’re cleaning off his face, he leans into your hand.

“There we go, Stu. ‘atta boy,” you praise softly once he’s as clean and tended to as you can get him, rubbing his shoulder with one hand and his chest with the other, the same way you’d pet a dog or a cat. The morgue is locked; you could do whatever you want to him. You could even kill him for real. But he trusts you. You don’t want to break his trust, do you?

He coos in response, another string of saliva going down his jaw. If he could form words, you wonder what he’d say.

You leave and come back a few minutes later with food for him. You help him eat, which set something off in you. Seeing this pretty, mangled boy lapping up warm soup off the spoon like a dog licking water out of a bowl… You wonder what that long tongue feels like around your dick.

“Don’t eat too fast now, Stu,” you put on your best ‘kindergarten teacher’ voice. You’re worried about if he throws up. He obeys and slows down- he must not have eaten in a while.

“They don’t know you’re alive. So… so let’s just keep this between us,” You tell him after he’s done as you pull your scrubs down and off of you. He makes a questioning coo which gets you way harder than you should be. He’s already naked, his old clothes having been cut off earlier; perfect and easy to access.

“This shouldn’t hurt at all, honey.”

Before you can even think about how wrong it is, you’re bouncing him on your dick, listening to that adorable cooing turn to wanton moans and gasps. That huge dick of his has completely gone to waste, twitching and idly leaking precum. He opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue, a string of spit dripping onto your bare chest as he moans like the perfect boywhore you’d do anything to mold him into. Your thrusts get faster, harder, until you feel his soft walls clench and squeeze around you, milking you better than any girl’s pussy. Hot fluid covers your stomach and groin. But it’s not cum. This pretty boy hasn’t cum yet. The bitter, concentrated scent hits you immediately: he pissed himself all over you and the exam bed.

That only turns you on more. You grab his waist and fuck into him like you’re the last two men on earth. His moans turn into overstimulated sobs as you fuck him through his actual orgasm. You can’t stand those tears rolling down his face. So after you pull out of him, your hot seed dripping out of his abused ass, you lick the tears away and hold his face, gently rubbing your thumb over his cheek.

“There we go. ‘atta boy, Stu,” you repeated.

You clean yourself off with an alcohol wipe and slip your scrubs back on, picking up the taller boy bridal-style. He coos again and gazes into your eyes, which almost gets you ready for another round. You wonder if he wanted it the whole time. Why he was still being so affectionate despite the fact that you raped him just a few minutes ago. You carry him all the way to one of the empty rooms, one of the ones they use for long-time stays or maternity intakes. You set him down in the bathtub and start running the water. Just warm enough for him. Washing him off, massaging his back and squeezing his chest; pinching and tweaking at his perky nipples; kissing and nipping on his neck and deltoid muscles as he lets out sounds that resemble boyish giggling; his bony hands over yours on his chest. you find an odd appreciation of his corpselike appearance. He’s beautiful and broken.