by Paul Henry
(12/16/09)

When Theresa Marie Easter was five, her grandfather died. She remembered a room filled with lilies and old men. Her mother was tense and austere. Her relatives drank beer from a keg all night after the organ music ended. Most of all, Theresa Marie remembered her grandfather -- pale and silent -- frozen in a pillow-lined box. Now, she thought, he won't make me sit on his lap anymore.

Sixteen years later, the day before Theresa Marie's twenty-first birthday, her father died. It was sudden, but not unexpected. She came home from Michigan State for the funeral. It was her first visit in almost a year.

Theresa Marie's mother encouraged her to shop for a funeral dress with Allison, her best friend from high school. (Her mother was too busy arguing with the mortician over the price of the casket.) "The dress can be your birthday present," her mother said, slipping her a $100 gift card.

At her mother's insistence, the dress she selected was black. When she returned home from shopping, she'd pulled it from the bag so that her mother could confirm the purchase, but Theresa Marie did not offer to model it. "Nobody models funeral wear."

The next morning the funeral home limo was waiting outside by the time Theresa Marie came downstairs in her new black dress. The hemline stopped several inches above her knees, and the neckline scooped dangerously close to her nipples. Only an inch of black lace following the neckline prevented outright scandal.

The dress fit perfectly, fluid and flowing, hugging her young body. Her mother was horrified, but it was too late for Theresa Marie to change. "What will people think?" her mother asked as she shepherded her daughter to the waiting limo.

That was what Theresa Marie wondered, too. "What will people think?"

To her credit, Theresa Marie hadn't selected the dress to shock anyone. It was a cocktail dress on sale. There was a slight tear. It was deeply discounted. Theresa Marie considered it a happy chance. With the money she saved on the dress, she'd purchased black pumps with three-inch heels that tightened her calves. She thrilled at her own imagine in the shoe department mirror.

The sales clerk, misunderstanding the context of the outfit, insisted she buy nylons and garters to go with the shoes. The dress barely covered the top of the nylons. "Bend over at your own risk," the clerk told her. Her friend Allison loaned her the money for a black lace bra and panties set on the condition she could borrow the whole outfit the next time Allison's boyfriend came back on leave from the Marines.

At the funeral home, Theresa Marie stood before her father's casket for so long that the line waiting to view him hesitantly edged its way around her. She waited for her father to lift his arm and strike her, shouting that she was holding up the line. Instead he remained motionless. "What does that feel like?" she asked to no one in particular.

"What do you mean?" asked a voice behind her.

"To be motionless -- powerless -- trapped in a box."

"It would feel...very good."

It was not the not the answer she expected. "How do you know?"

"I could show you." When she said nothing, he added, "Would you like that?"

She stared at her father's body. That was the same question he always asked her. Would you like that? But her father never gave her a chance to answer before he struck her.

The man behind her in the charcoal gray suit put his hand on her shoulder -- firm, confident, tender -- not like her father's calloused roughness. He guided her from the viewing room. When they were out of sight of the other mourners, he took her arm and escorted her down a hallway past other viewing rooms and finally to a door. He opened it. It was dark. He guided her in. Only when they were inside did he turn on the light, revealing a room full of caskets on display. He closed the door and flipped the lock. His arm encircled her slender waist. She did not resist. She was not frightened. She trusted him. He must be a friend of the family.

The man was young, mid-twenties, clean-shaven with curly brown hair and crisp intelligent eyes. His voice was soft, but firm, inviting but commanding. His back was straight, his step sure, his hands strong and well-manicured. Maybe he was a lawyer?

He led her to the centerpiece of the display, the burled walnut casket. "How Great Thou Art" came from the overhead speakers as they approached. The top third of the casket was open, revealing the pink satin pillow interior. He released her.

Theresa Marie stood quietly as the man stepped forward and opened the bottom two-thirds of the lid. She was fascinated by his confidence. Every move was deliberate. He knelt at her feet.

At first Theresa Marie did not understand. Then he gently unbuckled the strap of her right heel and removed the shoe. She placed a hand on his shoulder to steady herself as he unstrapped the second shoe. He placed the shoes by the bottom of the casket. He knelt again.

The man lifted the hem of her dress and unsnapped the first garters. He gently rolled the nylon down her thigh, grasping her firmly on the calf when she began to tremble. "You want to know, don't you?" She nodded. Theresa Marie raised her right foot and he removed her nylon. He set it aside and reached under her dress to remove the other stocking.

When he had laid the nylons beside her shoes he knelt again. He released the garter from around her waist and set it on the floor. She expected him to remove her panties, but instead he stood, moved behind her, reached under the back of her dress, and unfastened her bra. When he hesitated, she reached up and slid first the left, then the right strap, down off her shoulder and eased each arm out of the bra. He reached inside the front of her dress and removed it. He set it by the side of the coffin.

"The dress?" she asked softly.

"It's lovely," he reassured her.

The young man walked to the side of the room. He removed his suit coat and carefully folded it. He set it on a display model. His silk tie was held in place by a tie tack in the form of a gold cross.

He brought back a chair and placed it beside the center of the coffin. "I'm ready," he told her.

So am I, she thought, but said nothing. He already knew that.

He offered her his hand. She stepped onto the chair, paused, and then stepped into the coffin. Theresa Marie turned to face the foot of the coffin. She knelt and let him steady her as she lay down. He adjusted her dress where it had ridden up.

She looked at the ceiling. She blinked. He turned off the lights. "Do you trust me?" he asked her in the dark.

"Of course," she whispered.

"Close your eyes."

She obeyed.

Theresa Marie sensed him watching her in the dimness by the glow of the exit sign. Finally she felt his confident hands on her right hand as he tied one of her nylons to her wrist and then lashed the nylon tight to the brass handle on the side. When she didn't resist, he tied her other hand.

He listened, and when her breathing became regular again, he tied her right foot to the bottom handle with her bra and her left foot to the other handle using the garter. She could not escape, even if she wanted.

He leaned over and kissed her, gently at first, then with increasing hunger. When he broke away, she tried to bend forward to follow him. She couldn't. He lowered the upper lid and she was plunged into greater darkness. A dim light seeped through where the bottom lid was raised.

She felt him lift her dress until it rested at her waist. The cool of the air-conditioned air made her shiver. He was silent. She imagined him staring at her bare legs and thighs.

When he touched her again, she jumped within the narrow range of movement allowed by her restraints.

He massaged her legs, then her thighs, then her most private parts. He found her clit, at first merely brushing past it, then stroking it with increasing tenderness as she found herself wiggling within her restraints. She came, and only then did he lift the upper part of the lid again and crawl into the coffin with her.

As she caught her breath, he untied the ribbons on the sides of her panties, and pulled them from between her legs. He parted her nether lips and gently inserted first one finger and then another, gradually increasing the depth and the force of the insertions until she started to cry with pleasure.

He hissed, "Quiet, or I'll gag you." She was startled by his harsh words. But now she knew what was expected of her.

He began again to manipulate her, changing the tempo and the intensity, until she came again in a series of tiny orgasms that built in intensity, inching toward a peak. She whimpered when he backed away, but she said nothing. She heard him move the chair. What is he doing? When she felt his breath on her clit, she knew. His tongue followed, and he was kneeling over her. She tried to spread her legs but her restraints would not allow it.

"Untie me," she whispered.

"No."

"Fuck me."

"It wouldn't be right."

His tongue became more urgent. Her orgasms began again, in small bursts, then in waves to a climax. She didn't want it to be over.

Finally the young man rose off of her. He picked up his suit coat and draped it over the exit sign. She was in total darkness. Beyond the tiny spasms of her body, she could not move. She was limp. She understood the peace he'd promised her.

Theresa Marie did not know how long he left her in darkness, but when he restored the light and put on his suit coat, he owned her.

Even as he removed her restraints, she did not move. Only when he offered her his hand did she rise up from the coffin. She stood in the coffin for a moment, looking down on him. She knew what she wanted. "I want to show you my body." He nodded. There was almost a smile on his thin lips.

She reached her hands back to the zipper and drew it down. She eased the straps of the garment off her shoulders. She gently tugged the dress over her womanly hips until it fell in a pool on the bed of the coffin.

"You are beautiful, Theresa Marie. More than I ever imagined when I first heard your name." He didn't turn on the lights. The young man was content to worship her in the pale glow of the exit sign.

Eventually, it was time. He offered her his hand and she stepped out of the coffin and back to earth.

"Get dressed," he said. "Slowly." He turned on the lights. "We still have some time," he told her. But that was a lie. If he saw her again, he vowed never to lie to her again.

She dressed as he watched. He smiled in approval when she finished. She smiled back at him. For a moment, she glimpsed his weakness. "I want to fuck you."

"This isn't the time."

"When?" she said, insistent, but not demanding.

"After you've had time to grieve." She wrinkled her brow. "The next time you come back from college."

How did he know? "Do I know you?" she asked. "Are you a family friend? What's your name?"

The young man reached into his coat pocket even as he led her back to her father's visitation. He handed her his card. "My father owns this place. Some day it will be mine." She nodded with a glimmer of understanding. "I'm finishing my MBA, but I work here every weekend." He didn't want to leave her, but it was almost time for the funeral and he had things to attend to. "Does that bother you?"

Theresa Marie stopped in the hallway outside the room where her father lay. It didn't trouble her. "No," she told him. "I still want to fuck you."

"Next time," he said. "Next time I want that, too."

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