Little Deaths

As soon as she felt his penis pull out of her anus, Bobbie grabbed the camera she kept in the bed beside her, turned, and snapped several photographs of her lover, catching him in the midst of orgasm, his eyes shut tight, his brow furrowed, and the deep lines at the corners of his mouth accentuating a grimace that made him look as if he were experiencing agony rather than ecstasy as a streamer of his thick, white semen jetted from his rigid, swollen cock. She might be, as he said, a great piece of ass, but, caught in the moment of orgasm, he looked the very picture of a dying man.

Le petite mortes, the French called the orgasm--the little deaths.

In the nineteenth century, people had taken photographs of deceased loved ones. Usually, the corpses were positioned in a reclining posture, as if they were resting or asleep. They called their collections of such pictures “books of the dead.” They were meant as memorials to the spouses and offspring and siblings who’d died.

Since learning of this old-fashioned practice, Bobbie had begun to keep her own “book of the dead,” a photographic account of le petite mortes she’d inflicted upon Carl and her other lovers. To her, they were not so much memorials of their lives as they were records of her conquests of them. They were proof of her power over men--the power that they gave to her from above or, occasionally, as with Carl, from behind.

Her album, which she called Little Deaths, was a memento mori of sorts, reminding her that, in satisfying their lust, she took command of them, which, consequently, gave her the power both to “deliver” and to “crucify” the men who became her lovers. Such power might not make her a goddess, exactly, but it made her the equivalent of a Pontius Pilate, which wasn’t bad for a shemale who earned minimum wage as a fast food worker when she wasn’t helping men to find the sweet release of the little death.