[spoiler]I was working a regular 6-9 shift at the hospital morgue as an autopsy assistant. Like most assistants, I'm usually left with grunt work like preparing and cleaning dissection tools after an autopsy or holding down the fort while everyone else gets breakfast at the end of a shift, and that means watching over the bodies. I always get the short end of the stick, so to speak. Sometimes it feels good to give a bit of yours. It started out as a regular day, the paramedics brought in a body case and I had to intercept them with the carrying table (which is fun as hell to wheel around like a go-cart when no one's looking) and load the body. You notice a few things when you work with dead people long enough (besides the smell), like sex based on weight. Unless an amorphous blob comes along weighing one metric tubgirl, you can usually sex the body (and from experience I can say I resent America for making fat people). Whenever I'm handling a dead woman, though, I always find myself "double checking." As the paramedics handed her over, I nearly slipped and grabbed her by the breasts to prevent myself from "falling" for the eighth time that week. Those paramedics must think I'm the clumsiest assistant alive by now if they haven't caught on. Immediately, something felt different about this body. You see, the first thing that strikes you about dead breast is usually the firmness, (because rigor mortis is one of the biggest cock-blocks there is), but this one's squishiness was largely intact, and firm enough to just barely perceive coldness... Or arousal in the living. Her icy nipples rubbed up against my warm hands and I felt a twitch down under. I didn't say anything but my customary, "Sorry guys, jitters and whatnot" And shuffled with her along to the table and bore her inside. It's a bit of a walk to the autopsy room, so I usually have plenty of time to become acquainted with the bodies. I usually like talking to them on their way to eternal incarceration, but today I was tired from a late night argument with my mother about our curious shortage of breakfast cereal. I instead resolved myself to wheeling and daydreaming. I could still feel the soft flesh of her breasts on my clammy palms, those nipples like little pink rosebuds after a fall frost. I had phantom tit syndrome (which I'm fairly sure is a medical condition of mine now, pun not intended), and this only made me digress further. I started imagining what those cold melons would feel like pushed against my meat-straw, the firmness of cold skin and softness of flesh smothering my prick with a wave of pleasure comparable to skinny-dipping in the ocean with a hard-on. As usual, I started salivating on the body bag and snapped out of it, watching the viscous drops trace voluptuous curves around her outlined body. I don't care what anyone else says, body bags are definitely a turn-on. But I digress... I grew curious about her face, already being intimately associated with her in mind. I leaned over the bag and undressed its zipper. She was breathtaking. Her expression held a gorgeous vacancy, as if innocence left suddenly in wake of seductive, devilish maturity. It was clearly written in the open purse of her lips, the quizzical and unmoving slope of her gentle eyebrows, the rigidity and definition of her delicate cheekbones. Her emptiness aroused me. She was perfect. My johnson pricked up immediately and I nearly collapsed onto her right then and there when one of my co-workers suddenly interrupted, "Are you alright, Jerry?" I nearly dove out of my skin. In trying to quickly compose myself I actually tripped (marble floors are some of the biggest assholes I know) and fell directly on my stiffy. As I lay cursing my misfortune ever being born with a penis my co-worker had the nerve to utter, "Oh, sorry Jerry, I didn't mean to sneak up on you..." We're not on speaking terms currently. When I finally recovered, both the body and my co-worker, heartless harpy she is, were in the autopsy room. It must have been my aching dick or my irritation at my co-worker, because I felt the insatiable urge to -blam!- something. Or someone. I contemplated beating out a furious (if not slightly painful) rage-boner in one of the dismal hospital bathrooms, but I had waited long enough for this. Come hell or high water, I was going to -blam!- a cadaver. [/spoiler] [i]Does I do it like this?[/i]