(Usual disclaimers apply. Comments welcome. Flames ignored. baresteve@my-deja. com)
My father was a funeral director except back in the 1950s folks called him 'the undertaker'. That's just how it was in those days. Ours was a small town but with a large rural community which made 'Robert McKenzie and Son' a highly profitable business. In case you're wondering, Robert was my grandfather. I was just 13 years old when these events took place.
I guess people who grow up alongside death kind of take it for granted. My earliest memories are of playing on a trolley in the mortuary. My father smacked my bottom for doing that. Later the mortuary side of the business was run by an assistant, a good-natured, kind-hearted Scandinavian man in his early 20s. Lars liked nothing more than to take another trolley and we'd have a race which he always let me win. He was that kind of a man.
Have you ever noticed how some people have two sides to them? When my father was dealing with bereaved folk he was very respectful. People said he was a saint. Yet at home he was a harsh disciplinarian and it was a rare week when I didn't get a hiding from him.
My mother was a sweet person who answered the telephone and did the books as well as all the regular stuff mothers do. That's really all I have to say about her.
To this day I do not truly understand why I did this very bad thing: I was walking home from school. I took my usual shortcut through the fields. It was my first year at high school. I was small for my age so got bullied a lot by bigger lads and teased all the time about my father's occupation. So, I chose a lonely route rather than walk with the other boys. There wasn't another soul around except for Mr Ferguson who was working in his garden. I crept up under cover of the trees and jumped out on the elderly man yelling at the top of my still treble voice.
Mr Ferguson spun around but his eyes were blank. He clutched his chest and slowly crumpled to the ground - just like Lars did when we played Cowboys and Indians. Who'd have thought the old widower had so much fun in him? Chuckling, I walked slowly home.
That morning I'd been running late and had forgotten to put the rubbish out for the council men to collect. Bin day was Tuesday and it was one of my chores. When I got home my father was waiting in the hall. Ours was a big old rambling house and he took me to a room out of earshot of my mother who was in the kitchen. My pants came down and his belt slithered through his pant loops. Cowhide met boyhide with great force. The tears streamed down my face while my poor bottom felt like it was about to burst. The pain was savage. My father did not hold back. The hiding went on and on, my howls must have been shrill and desperate. They only encouraged my father to hit me even harder. My thin haunches radiated the most agonising hurt.
The hiding seemed to last forever. When he was done my father stormed out of the room while I curled up on the bed and sobbed my heart out. After I'd recovered a bit I went out the backdoor and limped over to the mortuary. Lars was busy sanding timber for a coffin. He grinned at me but then stopped what he was doing.
"What's the matter little one? Why the tears?"
I told Lars about the hiding.
"That man has the devil inside him". Lars looked angry. "I put those bins out myself this morning".
I ran to my tall, blonde friend and flung my arms around him. His hand gently felt my red-hot bottom through my uniform shorts.
"Little one. Why does he treat you so bad?"
Lars put a cloth on his workbench and gently placed me face down on it. He pulled my shorts down and unpeeled my underpants. He found a soothing liquid and rubbed it into the scorched flesh. It felt so good! Then I felt a finger inside my crease touching my bottom-hole.
"Trust me" Lars murmered before penetrating the tight anal sphincter. It took a moment to get used to the intruder but then Lars stroked my love gland and waves of ecstacy overwhelmed me. My bottom which my father had delighted in savagely hurting was now the source of exquisite pleasure thanks to my Scandinavian friend.
"Someday" Lars said in his deep voice, "I will place my penis inside you. It will be very good, I think".
I wanted him to do that now! In a trembling voice I told him so.
"Come with me". The finger was withdrawn. I shucked off my shorts and underpants. We walked into the preparation room. (Fear not gentle reader, we had the place to ourselves. It had been a slow week). Lars placed me on my side on a gurney. I watched him fill a container with warm water. He brought the apparatus over to the table and slowly inserted its hose up my bottom. I started to protest.
"Shhh! little one" his voice was infinitely soothing, "Just making room for Lars".
He unclipped the hose and warm water flooded my bowels. It was a strange sensation but my friend gently rubbed my tummy to ease the cramps.
"I gotta go to the toilet bad" my voice squeaked.
Lars pulled the hose out and lifted me onto a bucket. I broke wind very loudly and then emptied my gut. The preparation room's all pervasive odour of formaldehyde masked the smells I made. When I was done Lars wiped my bottom clean and we went back to the coffin room.
My father's assistant locked the door and then slowly took off his clothes. His body was firm and muscular. When his pants came off his big penis stuck right out. I swallowed having never seen a man's one before. I shucked off my remaining clothes. Lars got me to kneel on the table. His warm, wet tongue soothed my red, fiery bottom. Then he turned his attention to my bottom-hole. His tongue pressing against my anal opening made me shudder with anticipation.
"Be brave" Lars murmered, his big penis now wedged between my bottom cheeks. Slowly, he inserted his fleshy monster up my virgin chute. It hurt a great deal but somehow felt right. When he was fully inside me he paused until I got used to the feeling. Then he started to move, slowly at first but then faster and faster. I was joined to the man I loved with all my heart in the most intimate, deliciously obscene, way possible. I squeezed my sphincter around his love muscle. That was too much for Lars who groaned and then pumped his seed high into my rectum.
Afterwards, my friend and I cuddled. The he cleaned me up and we got dressed again. I buttoned up Lars overalls for him. Happy, I smiled at the big Scandinavian.
"That was the first time Lars make love to a LIVE person' my friend solemnly declared. It took a few moments for that to sink in. When Lars saw the expression on my face he roared with laughter.
'Just joking, little one".
One of Lars' great strengths was the respect he always gave any deceased person in his care. He did use humour a lot but only as a way of coping with the more distressing aspects of his work. I gave him a hug and then went back to the house.
The next morning at breakfast the telephone rang. My mother answered it and then handed the receiver over to my father. He immediately adopted the unctious tone he used with officials and the bereaved. I finished my breakfast, picked up my bag and headed off to school.
It was a perfect summer's day, already warm and not a cloud in the sky. Outside Mr Ferguson's place I heard men talking. I looked through the trees and saw two policemen examining the elderly widower who, strangely, was still in the same place as I had seen him the day before. Suddenly, the younger officer got up and stumbled towards my hiding place. He stopped in his tracks and vomited. It was then I realised Mr Ferguson was dead. There was also that sweet, distinctive smell an undertaker's boy knows so well.
A vehicle pulled up. It was my father making a 'first call' as he described it to the bereaved but known in the trade as a 'pick up'. That must have been the reason for the phone call at breakfast. He removed the stretcher and kicked its wheels down before trundling it across the lawn towards the policemen.
"Have to wait for a certificate from the doctor" the older officer told my father. He nodded and sat down on the edge of the garden, just a couple of feet from the body. My father reached over and helped himself to some fat, ripe strawberries which had been Mr Ferguson's pride and joy. When he crammed them into his mouth and began eating them with obvious enjoyment it was too much for the younger officer who promptly lost what remained of his breakfast.
The doctor bustled onto the scene. He took one look at Mr Ferguson and said "Heart. Warned him for years to take it easy". He filled out the certificate.
I turned and went on my way. My mind was churning. I had killed Mr Ferguson! Fear gripped me. I knew I was too young to hang but I'd go to borstal and later prison for the rest of my life. Suddenly a hand pulled my ear. In my blind panic I had made my way to school. The hand was the headmasters and meant only one thing, I was very late. He marched me into his study and told me to bend over a chair. He flicked my blazer up with his cane.
"Your father is a fine man" the Head said, conversationally, and then whacked me very hard, rekindling the remains of the fire still smouldering in my backside - the legacy of that brutal hiding given to me by that 'fine man'.
"Didn't seen him at lodge last week. Pressure of work, I expect". He whacked me again. Now it felt like I had a forest fire raging down there.
"Please give him my kind regards. I voted for him to be our next Grand Master". The cane sliced into my poor buttocks for a third and, thankfully, final time. I don't know which hurt more, the Head's admiration of my father or the caning. I got up and made my way to the classroom. The first period was already well under way. I sat down and the spinster Geography teacher smirked when she saw me wince.
Somehow I got through the rest of the school day. When I trudged home all was quiet outside the Ferguson place. I made my way into the mortuary. Dear Lars was working in the coffin room. I flung my arms around him, sobbing. I told my friend how I'd murdered Mr Ferguson. Lars wiped my tears and took me through to the preparation room. The remains of my victim were covered with a sheet. Lars folded it back.
"See how peaceful he is".
It was true. Mr Ferguson looked a lot younger but empty. Death does that to a person.
"He was 79 years old. At that age he was very lucky to be taken so quickly. He could have lingered on for years in the cottage hospital. No family or friends to speak of. A good death. He'd have been gone before his body touched the ground. Trust me I know about these things". He covered the face again with the sheet.
"It was his time, little one. That's the truth of it".
Lars was right and I felt immensely comforted by him.
We went through to the room where he slept when it was his turn to be on night duty. There was a cot against one wall. We both undressed.
"One thing about death. It makes you want to affirm life". he said. He tut-tutted when he saw the cane welts on my bottom and the technicolor bruises from the buckle-end of my father's belt.
"Vandals! They have desecrated your two magnificent portals'.
I giggled at Lars' description of my bum. He kissed me. Then we coupled on that cot, tender loving which made me feel complete.
Some years later, my father lost his business. An undertaker's good reputation is essential for his survival in a very competitive industry. The details of his downfall are not important. One day he let his mask slip long enough to offend every person within earshot including my old headmaster. After that, all the deaths in the district were handled by a city firm. Lars bought my father out for the proverbial song. The locals respected the tall Scandinavian and he slowly built the business back up again. Another McKenzie became Lars assistant - me. The name of the firm changed to 'Lars Johansen'. Most important of all, we have shared the same bed for all these many years. Yes, even now we still affirm life!