Mortuary Transport Specialist was generally not the line of work passersby suspected Charlotte to be engaged in. Though, to be fair, most people probably didn’t often think of (or even know that) such a job title existed. Certainly, in some dusty and disparaged dark corner of each person’s mind, is the recognition that someone took care of the remains of their loved ones. Mostly, Charlotte understood that human beings preferred their cognition of the recently deceased to linger in the philosophical plane of the existence of an afterlife, and liked to think of the dead as frolicking through fields of wildflowers and kittens, not tucked betwixt stiff, white sheets, nor benighted by a body bag.
If they did happen to consider that there might be a person charged with the care and transport of their dearly departed, the images conjured were probably along the lines of Mary Shelley’s monster—ghoulish and lumbering about, hunchbacked, sallow-skinned and half-dead himself, having never seen daylight, cleverly collecting the dead in the Devil’s hour, so as not to foul the pure and undisturbed psyches of the living.
It was exactly this line of thinking that left the widow mildly taken aback—but, mostly bemused by the appearance of the slight and nymphish blonde through the screen door on her late husband’s doorstep. The seasons had just begun to turn from summer to autumn and a cool breeze blew a few crisp leaves into tiny, crackling tornadoes on the street. Though the widow was a modern woman—she held onto a few old-world superstitions. The mirrors had been covered, clocks stopped at the time of departure, with windows and front door left agape—a tradition she’d learned from her grandmother, meant to guide a spirit more rapidly into the afterworld, lest they become stranded in the confines of their mortal dwelling for eternity.
The widow sat at a tall table—long-legged and feline-like. Appropriately draped head to toe in black, one red-bottomed pump dangled from her foot, a lipstick-stained cigarette swayed at her lacquered fingertips. Scotch in hand, dress left loose at the collar, she took a long pull on her cigarette and drew a finger to rest on her temple, smoky ribbons slid from between her lips, as she looked Charlotte slowly up and down—quietly commanding. She motioned Charlotte in with a wave of her honeyed hand.
Charlotte’s appearance was that of a coquettish Tomboy in a black dress and Chuck Taylors—light curls played angelically around her pale, boyish face, framing her large, shy eyes. She stepped inside.
"I assume you’re here from the funeral home? I would have expected someone with a little more stature." The widow chuckled softly, Charlotte blushed deeply and cast her gaze briefly downward. She’d only been working with the funeral home for six months, but in that time, she had witnessed a many-hued range of human emotion and response to grief—but, this...this was slightly different. The widow was flirtatious and it threw Charlotte off.
The widow adjusted herself on the stool, exposing a lace-topped stocking and a length of smooth, supple, caramel thigh. Charlotte tried to avert her eyes, but felt a heat quicken between her legs.
"He’s in there. I haven’t gone in since they called. The doctor called me to tell me he’d passed...I’d rather remember him as he was. You must think I’m awful."
Charlotte glanced up to give a smile and assure her it was fine.
"We’ve been estranged. I guess his mistress couldn’t take the reality. So, they called me, I am still his wife, after all. At least the bar is stocked." She gave a sad, sideways smile and patted the seat next to her. "Come, have a drink with a widow, won’t you? I won’t tell—and he’s not going anywhere, I promise you that."
Charlotte started to object—the widow raised her brow and straddled the stool, leaning towards her.
"Come now, there’s nobody here to judge. I see that look, don’t you worry—there’ll be no trouble. Life’s too short to follow the rules."
Charlotte exhaled and hoisted herself up onto the chair. The widow reached over, between her legs and pulled her closer in, without so much as looking over, pouring her a drink and gesturing towards the room, where the man that was supposed to be her cargo lay.
"It’s funny, isn’t it? One day, you’re living life and the next it’s just over with. Kinda makes you want to just say, ’fuck it’ and go where the wind takes you." Charlotte sipped her Scotch. It tasted smooth, earthy and expensive. The widow lifted another cigarette to her lips, her matchbook slipped from her hand and fluttered to the mahogany floor. Charlotte slid down from the stool to retrieve it and found herself on her knees, looking up the long expanse of the widow’s silk-stockinged legs. She felt a smooth hand on her head—the widow ran her fingers through her hair and tickled the nape of her neck. She felt her skin quiver and flush—her nipples hardened and her petite breasts peered stiffly through her thin black dress. Goosebumps traveled the length of her body.
She licked her lips softly, without thinking and bit down slightly. The widow’s finger traveled lightly along her temple, down her neck. "You sure are a cute one, aren’t you? Does this bother you?" Charlotte shook her head, the heat now burning between her legs begged her to go on. The widow sighed knowingly—hungrily, even. Her fingers continued down and made little circles around Charlotte’s hardened nipples. Charlotte sucked in her breath—she was trying not to shake, from both nerves and arousal. The widow smiled again. "Don’t be nervous—such a pretty little mouth..." She traced her finger back up and lightly grazed Charlotte’s small, rosebud lips. Without thinking, Charlotte closed her eyes and pulled the widow’s finger into her mouth. She sucked long, hard, hungrily. She ran her tongue along the length and took the widow’s hand in hers—she licked between each finger, suddenly wild with wanting.
The widow let her head fall back and moaned softly, her legs splayed open to reveal her smooth, bare pussy—wet and wanting and waiting...sweet and forbidden fruit. Charlotte pressed her lips lightly to the inside of her thigh and delicately made her way between the widow’s legs. Each little kiss, more of a mouthful. She grazed her teeth softly along the plump round flesh and gave a small bite. The widow’s moans grew louder and more wild, as she began to buck and rock her hips. Hot, luminous fluid dripped heavily from between Charlotte’s legs—she slid her panties aside and grazed her swollen clit, just as her tongue met with the widow’s tumescent cunt. Charlotte thrust her fingers into her opening while she entered herself with her other hand, and all at once—and together—a flood rushed from between their legs, their frenzied moans became one deep gasp, and for one eternal moment, the world disappeared into a velvety, unknown darkness.
