Dirge for a Summer Moon
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Dirge for a Summer Moon
Peter Baltensperger

The ancient cemetery surrounded by old trees was still and dark under the cloud-black
sky of a late summer night. The eerie hooting of two owls echoed through the trees, the
only sound. Clayne Winters lay quietly on one of the graves, the old gravestones and
monuments like formidable shadows all around him. He held his engorged penis in his
hand, rubbing it slowly, rhythmically. He felt strangely stimulated by the knowledge that
he was lying on top of a skeleton of a long-gone life. He liked the anonymity of the
graveyard, the weather-worn stones no indication. He once tried to read the names on the
ancient stones, but they were too old to make out more than an occasional letter or part of
a date. Time hadn’t been kind to the cemetery, but Clayne like the impersonality of the
blank markers. They once marked what had once been, only to degenerate into the
nameless signposts they had become, pointing nowhere, naming no one.

Everything around him was dead, even the air among the graves seemed to be dead,
smelling of decay, tasting of lives lived long ago and forgotten long ago. Only he was
alive among all the skeletons, doubly alive with his erection blooming in his hand, his
mind brimming with arousal and sensual imagery. And he was alone. He liked that the
best, despite the large population under ground. His awareness of them only deepened his
loneliness, intensified his lust for life, for sexual stimulation. Sometimes he wished he
could bring a woman with him, although he well knew the impossibility of anything like
that ever happening.

Nobody had ever come to the cemetery in all the time he had been going there to
commune with the dead and think about the skeletons under ground while he masturbated
slowly and with great care. Yet as he was lying there underneath the clear sky, a black
cloaked figure with a black hood came walking slowly out from among the trees. He was
flabbergasted by the unexpected apparition in what he thought was his own secret place.
He couldn’t even see a face, yet judging from the small stature and some wisps of hair
showing from under the hood, he surmised that it was probably a woman.
To his dismay, the black figure detached itself from the trees and came walking through
the rows of graves to where he was lying in the shadow of the stone. He tried to hide his
erection, but it was too late for that. The figure walked straight up to him, stopped at his
feet, and looked down on him for the longest time. He tried to catch a glimpse of the face,
but it was too well hidden under the hood. He was about to say something to break the
uncanny silence when the figure moved to stand over him like an apparition from a dark dream,
an avenging angel in the black night.

He just lay there quietly as he had before, wondering what would be happening next. He
felt suddenly guilty about why he was there and what he had been doing in the cemetery
all along. Yet to his considerable surprise, and immense relief, the figure hiked her cloak
up to her waist, straddled his hips, and let herself slowly down on him, draping the cloak
over both of them. He gasped when he felt her wet labia touch the tip of his erection, and
he thought he heard the figure moan under her breath from underneath her hood. He
couldn’t be sure. He felt her move down a bit further to take the head of his penis into her
narrow opening and he squirmed under her. He felt like screaming in the still night, but he
suppressed his urge so as not to disrupt the moment.

He lifted his hips and felt the apparition move further down until his entire erection was
inside of her and she was sitting on his hips. She never made a sound, never showed her
face, only started to move slowly up and down on him, his erection twitching lustily in
her agile receptacle. He felt his skin moving up and down his shaft and he moaned
involuntarily She stopped her up and down motion from time to time to flex her interior
muscles and make him groan gutturally at the stimulation. The graves around them were
as quiet as they always were, even though he thought the ground was shaking underneath
him, the weight of the apparition keeping him in place.

The black figure lifted her cloak and reached under it with one hand. He could feel her
touch her labia just above the root of his erection, then rub herself and her clit, slowly and
methodically at first, then more and more frantically. Her up and down motions on his
erection became more and more agitated until he felt her insides tighten in ecstatic
spasms and her body begin to tremble. He felt her shudder and quiver as she rocked
through her orgasm as if the whole earth were shaking under him, as if the skeletons
rattled noiselessly in their graves. She didn’t make a sound the whole time, keeping the
silence of the strange night intact.

His erection was yearning for the same release, but she didn’t move any more, just sat on
him with her body shaking and squirming, her hand still on her clit. He tried to thrust
against her in the dark night, but she kept him pinned down. His penis ached inside her,
hoping she would resume her motions, but instead she suddenly detached herself from
him, pushed herself up to her feet, and straightened her cloak. He thought he could see a
smile play over her invisible face, but he couldn’t be sure. She had already turned away
and walked back to the trees to melt into the darkness from where she had so
unexpectedly appeared. He was alone once more, feeling like a cheap, convenient
instrument in someone else’s dream. As he watched her disappear among the trees, the
black clouds opened up and a full moon climbed up over the treetops to cast bizarre
shadows across the silent graves.

© 2015

Peter Baltensperger is a Canadian writer of Swiss origin and the author of ten books of various genres. His
latest book of erotica is a collection of short fiction, Eros for Various Voices. His work has appeared in several
hundred publications around the world over the past several decades. His erotic writing has appeared in print
in The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica, Erotica Quarterly, Sex in the City - Paris, and the International
Journal of Erotica, and on-line in Bare Back Magazine, Clean Sheets, Black Heart Magazine, The Erotic
Woman, Oysters and Chocolate, and Every Night Erotica, among others. He makes his home in London,
Canada with his wife Viki and their four cats.
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