The School Bully Ended Up on My Autopsy Table

Those of us who work surrounded by the dead drag around a sinister reputation, or we would drag one around if our society, occupied with its bright everyday distractions, bothered to think about us. It’s the old stigma of the executioner, the gravedigger, the one who carries the weight of death on his shoulders so that others can keep living in their comfortable ignorance.

I must admit it’s an unfair reputation. The forensic doctors, mortuary attendants, and embalmers I’ve known throughout my career are as kind and discreet as anyone, and even a little more so. People with a gentle stoicism, careful manners, a tact that is not a façade but the reflection of something clean they carry inside.

I, of course, am the exception that proves the rule.

Maybe it’s my fault, maybe it isn’t. I don’t know whether my inclinations were born of some twisted experience or of a simple error of nature, and the truth is I’d like to know. Maybe one day we’ll learn to excise evil by cutting out a region of the brain, and along the way we’ll also erase the pernicious ideas of artists who make life so uncomfortable for those who prefer an orderly world.

All I know for certain is that from childhood I was a difficult kid. I struggled to understand the invisible rules the rest of my classmates seemed to handle effortlessly. I solved everything with violence, something that at first earned me a certain respect and later turned against me, when whispers replaced beatings and I discovered I couldn’t stand alone against the whole world.

At school I changed tactics, with equally disastrous results. Terrified at the idea of being alone forever, I became a people-pleaser, willing to let anyone walk all over me. But my social awkwardness made me the perfect target for those who enjoy humiliating others. And of all those miserable bastards, none was worse than her.

Lorena was hot and she knew it. She had half the class eating out of her hand and a few older boys eating out of other places. She was a brunette who wore impossible leggings to show off her hips and chose necklines the teachers would criticize after taking their own long look at them. She always had a cutting comeback, words she drove home with that shrill voice of hers. No one wounded me as badly as she did.

She started picking on me the day I answered a question correctly that she had missed. I don’t remember the subject, so what does it matter. What I do remember are the rumors: that my parents beat me every day, that I’d been kicked out of another school for groping a classmate, that I lifted skirts and pawed asses in the hallways. Every time I opened my mouth, she made sure to add a humiliating coda. Maybe that’s why I spoke less and less.

From first year until I finished high school, no group wanted me among them, no girl looked at me twice, and every time someone mentioned my name it was with laughter, contempt, or pity. I took refuge in my books and my B-movies, in Internet forums where I argued about gothic novels and gruesome scenes. I became an expert on Poe, on Cortázar, on Cronenberg’s sickest films, on anything that would let me escape the mediocre torture I lived in.

Loneliness had at least one useful consequence. I developed a ferocious critical sense — it’s easy to criticize the world when you aren’t part of it — and, above all, I became an excellent student. I won a scholarship to study medicine far from my hometown, to the relief of a family that preferred to keep its black sheep at a distance. Lorena, by then at an age when almost all bullies had matured, gave me one last rumor: that I had chosen that degree only because of my obsession with corpses.

Who could have said how close to the truth she would come without meaning to.

***

I swear I decided to become a doctor for the chance to help people, to earn the applause my circumstances had denied me. But I was also curious to know whether, after so much fictional gore, I’d be capable of facing real death. The night before our first practice with real bodies, I didn’t sleep a wink.

There are several possible reactions to a corpse. Most people, especially the girls, showed respect, reverence, and a badly disguised disgust. Others joked in a pathetic attempt not to think about their own mortality, but they did so while trembling. In all my years at university I only met three people capable of genuine indifference toward the dead. Were they psychopaths? I don’t know.

And then there was me.

I didn’t feel nervous as I approached those inert human beings — human beings, yes, because we all end up looking like them when flesh leaves us — but quite the opposite. Unlike the living, they didn’t bully me, they didn’t make me jealous with their trips or their partners, my parents didn’t compare me to them to make me feel lesser. There they were, there I was. And, still as they were, I could imagine whatever I wanted.

I remember the first body that stirred something in me. Almost all of them were elderly or in bad shape, but she wasn’t. She must have been about thirty, and she was a magnificent woman, with wide hips, big breasts with dark nipples, and a hairy cunt visible under the cold lights of the anatomy theater. I got hard without meaning to, right there in front of everyone, and had to press my thighs against the table so the bulge in my pants wouldn’t show. I imagined licking those fleshy lips below, parting them with my tongue, slipping my fingers into a woman who wouldn’t swat me away or laugh at me afterward. I stood there staring, dazed, and the mockery wasn’t long in coming. I don’t want to be the freak, I kept telling myself. I don’t want to be that lonely guy everyone runs from. I wanted to cover myself in a veneer of respectable normality.

That didn’t work out either. At university I tried to attach myself to one group after another, tried to seduce some girl, tried alcohol, confessed impossible secrets when I was drunk. I failed at everything. Only the dead accepted me without asking anything in return. And so, while I watched my former classmates’ lives on social media, I specialized in forensic medicine.

I ended up at the Forensic Pathology Service in a city I don’t intend to name, where I became an tireless worker and, to everyone’s surprise, a good colleague. My performance during the pandemic, when we converted the morgue to hold the deceased, earned me a commendation from the regional government. The best thing about this line of work is that it’s solitary and peaceful, and that whether I stay depends on my performance and not on the goodwill I inspire in any boss.

Several years of relative calm passed. I still didn’t appeal to women, still dragged the same traumas behind me. I tried prostitutes and they didn’t satisfy me: the whores moved too much, faked moans in a broken-record voice, watched the clock while I tried to get hard. One sucked me off with such listlessness that I went soft in her mouth, and I left there wanting the earth to swallow me. Another told me, while pulling up her panties, that she hadn’t felt anything, that if I wanted a next time I should bring pills. In the end I settled for abstinence and looking at bodies from a distance, enchanted and cowardly. To pass the time I took up bland hobbies like photography and fishing.

Until she arrived.

***

It was a Saturday night. Just another routine call: a body came in. That shift we were down to the bare minimum, but my superiors knew I alone was enough for the usual workload. I took it as just another formality, a day like any other: a woman, quite pretty, dead from an overdose of pills. A shame. Then I read the tag with her name.

Lorena Mansilla Vega. It was her.

I held back the emotion, a guilty but very real emotion. I was glad that the woman who had made my life impossible, who had known how to stunt my growth as a person, was lying there in front of me. Having accomplished nothing, laid out like a poor junkie, there was the unbearable bully, with the same full tits as always, the silky hair, the perfect face, now with the brown skin dulled by death’s pallor. Lorena had always been hot and she knew it, but she had never been this hot.

I put her into the cold room after the required formalities and walked through the entire building with a stone face, lying to myself, telling myself I was only dealing with a blow from the past. Lying. What I was doing was picking at the wound: thinking about the full life that woman must have had, the friends, the parties, the cocks she must have ridden, the guys she would have sucked off at parties I’d never have been allowed into. I checked that no one was still awake, with a macabre idea already lodged in my head and my cock beginning to swell inside my pants.

Back in the morgue, I locked the door with my key. I knew it could raise suspicion, that I was risking my job if anyone came to claim the body. But we were far from her hometown, and if her friends had shared the drugs that killed her, they’d let her parents collect her. Besides, I wasn’t thinking with my head anymore. I was thinking with my dick.

I took her out of the chamber like someone taking clothes out of a drawer. Not much time had passed and the body was still firm, appetizing, with that unsettling quality that made me smile like an idiot. I stripped her completely, cutting away the sheet with scissors, and stood there looking her up and down, my mouth dry. Her big breasts hung just slightly outward, with the broad dark nipples pointing at the ceiling. Flat stomach, wide hips, shaved cunt with a dark strip above, thick thighs parted a little by the position. It was the fucking image I had chased in my head for years.

I don’t know how long I looked at her. What would your parents say if they saw you. You’re risking your job. You’re despicable. But inside me pulsed an urge I had never learned to recognize until that night. I looked into those empty eyes and extended my hand toward her chest. I brought my fingers near with a slowness that nearly made me faint.

I grabbed that cold tit and was surprised no bolt of lightning fell from the sky. Then, mouth open, I spent minutes kneading one breast and then the other, weighing them in my palms, squeezing until the nipples stood hard between my fingers. For the first time there was no one telling me time was up, not to squeeze so hard, not to pinch the nipple. I twisted one viciously and let out a teenage gasp, out of my mind from the soft, icy feel of those two monuments to lust.

—No wonder you were so popular —I whispered to her—. With these tits anyone would be. But that’s over. Death makes us all equal, Lorena. And some more than others.

I bent down and took one nipple entirely into my mouth. I sucked it hungrily, with years of hunger built up inside me, biting it until the flesh yielded between my teeth. I moved to the other, licked the whole areola, spat on it, and sucked again. I ran my tongue down the sternum, over the defined ribs, over the navel. I rested my face on her belly and kissed every inch of cold skin. I knew the risks of touching a body like that and wanted to be careful, but every now and then I slipped in a bite to the hip, the thigh, the pubis. I went back to her nipples and took them into my mouth. Then I spat on her eyes, which received my contempt without flinching, just as I had received her humiliations years earlier.

—You’re the most pathetic thing I’ve ever known —I told her in the ear, in a tone almost tender that raised goosebumps on my own skin—. And now you’re nothing. You always picked on me. Look who’s still breathing. Look who’s got a hard cock and who’s got her cunt spread wide open on a gurney.

I put on my gloves carefully. I had taken the recklessness of touching her bare-skinned, but what came next was more dangerous. And, drunk on that sense of power, I already knew I’d do it again if I wasn’t caught.

***

I spread her legs all the way open. I hooked her thighs over the armrests of the gurney and her cunt was left offered like a split-open fruit. With two fingers I parted her lips, looking at the pink, pale, lifeless interior. God knows how many men had come inside there, I thought. Inside there the school’s popular boys had gotten off while I jerked off in my room imagining that same scene. Now I was the one in the front row.

I slid my fingers in without the delicacy one usually has with a living body. I pushed in two, then three, all the way to the knuckles, feeling those tight walls that didn’t contract or relax, that were just there, still, waiting. I found the spot where I’d read a thousand times the clit was and rubbed it with my thumb, with the resentful violence of someone who will never again know whether he’s doing it right. Her inert face seemed to grant me a silent welcome, and I took advantage of it. With my other hand I stroked her legs, a fine pair of legs that reminded me of every time that woman had made me feel guilty for wanting her. I slapped her cunt with my palm, a dry crack echoing off the tiled walls. Now I had control. Now I was the dominant one, and the pleasure growing inside me would not be humiliating but glorious.

I lost patience almost at once. I took off my gloves, washed my hands, and stroked myself over my pants. My cock was already throbbing, taut, trapped against the fabric. I yanked down my pants and underwear in one pull and freed it, savoring that tomb-cold rigidity that had seized it. A clear thread was already hanging from the tip. I took a condom from my wallet that I’d never had the chance to use with any woman and rolled it on clumsily, never taking my eyes off those two tits.

Before putting it in her, I climbed up onto the gurney and held the sheathed cock in front of her face. I opened her mouth with my fingers, pushing the jaw downward, and fit my dick between her purple lips. I grabbed her head with both hands and pushed, fucking the dead mouth with brutal clumsiness, hearing the wet little sound of latex hitting her teeth. Her cold tongue licked my glans without licking it, her throat opened on its own under the weight. I stared at her face as I shoved it all the way in and imagined all the years of high school condensed into that scene: the class queen choking on my cock, unable to utter a single one of her cutting retorts.

—Suck me, bitch —I growled—. Suck it like you sucked the others. Like you never deigned to look at me back then.

I pulled out with her mouth full of spit and lowered myself, sliding the gurney, stroking her hair, tugging it, and positioned myself over her like a conqueror. I ran the tip up and down her cunt, soaking the latex in the dead wetness she still had left. And I shoved it in.

It hurt going in.

Of course, I thought, ashamed of my own stupidity. There was no lubrication. I spat, once, twice, three times, smearing the tight hole with my saliva. Driven by an enthusiasm that made me ignore the pain, I pushed all the way in. A vein stood out in my neck; I turned into a beast. I fucked her with her legs lifted, surprised by the effort it takes to hold a body like that, resting her ankles on my shoulders. But it was worth it. When I felt those tight walls closing around me, I forgot everything: morals, law, sanity. In that instant only she and I existed, and all the humiliations I was collecting with interest.

I started fucking her with long thrusts, pulling my cock almost all the way out and driving it back in with one hard stroke, watching the big tits jolt with every impact. The body slid a few inches across the gurney with each thrust, and I had to grab her hips to hold her in place. The cold skin of her thighs against my hot ones made a contrast that turned me on even more. I leaned forward, never stopping to pump, and bit one nipple, tugging it with my teeth until it stretched. I licked her neck, her parted lips, her chin.

—Think about your parents —I whispered, looking her in the face, and I would swear something in her expression changed—. Think about how much they’ll cry over a junkie daughter. Imagine how much they’d suffer if they saw what I’m doing to you. If they saw their little princess with her legs open and my cock down her throat.

I yanked out of her in one move, struggled to turn her face down, with her tits crushed against the cold metal, and lifted her hips to leave her ass exposed. I parted her buttocks with my thumbs and stared at that tight hole, the place no one, or almost no one, had surely ever touched while she was alive. I spat on it. I pushed in one finger, then two, feeling it yield without resistance. And I jammed my cock into there, into her ass, clenching my teeth at the brutal tightness that closed around the glans.

—Here too, Lorena —I panted, pushing slowly—. Here too I’m going to put it in. Everything you denied me, I’m collecting tonight.

I fucked her on all fours, my hands dug into her hips, leaving purple marks no one would ever see. Every stroke made a dull, obscene sound, flesh against flesh. I yanked her hair back, arching her neck, fucking that tight ass of hers with a fury I didn’t recognize in myself. I slipped my hand underneath and squeezed one breast until it spilled through my fingers.

Without pulling out, I turned her over again. Now I wanted to look into those empty eyes as I came. I buried it in her cunt again, kept thrusting with a vigor inversely proportional to the vitality of my partner, my eyes fixed on hers like a hunter’s. I ran my hand from her thigh to her neck and squeezed, pretending to strangle her, pressing my fingers into her pale skin. If only it had been me, I thought, my cock hard as stone. I hit her with a brutality that nearly toppled the gurney, banging my pelvis against hers, feeling her tits bounce against her chest with each blow.

I felt the orgasm rising from my balls, warning at the base of my cock, and I still had time to pull out of her cunt, rip off the condom with a yank, and put it back over her face. I started jerking off with both hands, aiming at that perfect face, at the half-open lips, at the eyes that years earlier had looked at me with contempt in every hallway of the school.

The orgasm came abundant and violent, so much so that I had to bite my lips so the groan wouldn’t be heard all over the building. I came over her in thick white ropes, stream after stream, that fell on her forehead, on her eyelids, on her mouth, on her chin, then hung down to her neck. I emptied myself to the last drop, milking my cock with my fist, and still another little droplet came out that I let fall onto her tongue. I collapsed onto those tits that would never nourish anyone again and stuck out my tongue to taste their icy flavor, mixed with my own semen sliding down from her face.

—You failed as a woman and as a person —I murmured, running the glans still dripping over the lips painted with my load—. And for the first time in your fucking life, you’ve made me happy.

***

After that animal coupling I took off the condom, which hadn’t even served its purpose to the end, and, like a drunk waking with a hangover, I felt a shiver as I understood the magnitude of what I’d done. I looked at the body, with the semen still glistening on her face, with her cunt open and reddened, with my finger marks on her neck, and I no longer saw her, only a collection of organs and tissues. I nearly vomited. I swore to myself I would never do it again.

Liar.

In the bathroom I realized that, when I left, I hadn’t locked the morgue. I stood there, ghostly white, and felt desire rising again. My cock, which should have been exhausted for hours, was starting to swell once more against the fabric of my pants. It was the boxer’s nerves, that adrenaline that pushes you to do it again. The thrill of possibly being caught made me walk slowly down the corridors. I went to my office to get my bag, without crossing paths with anyone, and came back at a brisk pace, convinced I would find half the staff waiting for me with handcuffs ready.

When I went in, everything was just as I had left it. So was she.

I approached the corpse with the camera in my hand. Seen like that, with the cum drying on her skin, with her legs still open and the purple marks on her hips, stripped of all the dignity that the rite of death grants — the black suits, the expensive wood, the solemn silences — she was portrayed as what she had always been to me: a slut, a smoking-hot bitch who had finally paid for what she did to me. And that was how I wanted to immortalize her. I photographed her from every angle with an old analog camera that spat out the images instantly. I spread her legs to photograph her cunt up close, still dilated. I parted the lips with my fingers and shot. I lifted one breast and shot. I opened her mouth, slid two fingers into her throat, and shot. I took a self-portrait burying my cock between her lips again, my free hand gripping her hair. I looked at them like someone looking at the memory of a girlfriend. With my crotch tightening again, I weighed starting over.

And I started over. I jerked off over her while looking at her, stroking myself with my left hand while with my right I kneaded one breast. It didn’t take long: in four or five pulls I was coming over her again, this time on her breasts, watching my semen slide between the squeezed tits and pool in the hollow of her sternum.

Now, that’s enough. Don’t push your luck. You can do it again later, and you’ve got the souvenir photos.

Reluctantly I tidied her up as best I could. I cleaned the remnants from her face, neck, chest, cunt, and ass with damp cloths, combed her hair, closed her legs, crossed her arms. I returned her to the refrigerated chamber with a butcher’s smile, imagining I was condemning her to the last circle of Hell, that lake of ice where the fallen angel pays for all eternity. I checked the room a hundred times, leaving everything as it had been, and waited for the night shift to end.

Her parents arrived a few hours later. They recognized me, but they were too broken to notice the coincidence. I spoke with them with exemplary professionalism, carrying out the formalities as if nothing had happened. In my pocket I had the photographs of their daughter with her legs open and my semen on her face. It’s the first time in my life I’ve been glad to have a modest-sized penis: thanks to that, no one noticed anything when my cock got half hard again while the mother thanked me for my kindness.

When I finished work and got home, instead of resting I locked myself in the bathroom with the photos spread across the sink. I thought about the tears of that mother who would have to bury her daughter, about the silent justice Death had dispensed through me, about how that body had accepted everything without protest. I jerked myself off again while looking at the photos, one by one, lingering on the ones of the dilated cunt and the semen dangling from her chin. I came in the sink with a long growl. He who laughs last laughs best. And that day I laughed like a madman, so much that my neighbors almost called the police.

And now what? Nothing, I’m still the same as always, immersed in my vices and consumed by my appetites. I’ve accepted it. I know I’ll never be like everyone else, and I wouldn’t trade the freedom I felt when I discovered that for anything. Now and then, on lazy nights, I spend some time with a particularly beautiful body, suck on some cold tits, sink my cock into a cunt that doesn’t complain, come on a face that doesn’t judge me. I always carry the camera just in case an opportunity comes along, and I must confess I keep a lovely collection in one of my rooms. Yes, it’ll be my downfall the day they catch me. But one has to live. And, as I know well from my work, I’m going to end up just as dead anyway.

Sometimes, when I touch myself with my eyes fixed on all those lovers who don’t even know they are, I look for her among the photos. The one with the open cunt, the one with my cock in her mouth, the one with my load dripping down her forehead. Then I laugh again, and come again as if I were fifteen, my hand dripping with thick semen while I whisper her name. The first times, my friends, the first times are always special.