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Friends? I had many friends: friends from higher places and friends from lower places. They watched every move I made, told me things, promised me things, swore to me that they would never leave me—that they were my true friends. Yes. I adored them greatly, and they adored me. We made plans together—plans that would lead us to the stars, to the future, to existence!
My friends and I had discovered what it truly meant to live! We made sweet love not through intercourse, instead, we made love through our actions towards other people. The sensation between us all was indescribable! My erection was of my quickly beating heart. The smell—even the smell I remember: that molding kind of smell that reeks from garbage cans—that bitter smell.
“Go on, John,” my friends told me at the peak of every midnight, when my erection shrouded over a poor soul whose life would end. “Go on, John.” Their voices so seductive, so pure, so sweet.
Friends? Yes. My friends I would allow to take control of my body. I was no longer known as John. No. Never. John didn't exist. Every single night, when the moon was high in the sky, midnight, I would perform tasks that were not my own. They were my friends' tasks that they needed to accomplish. I let them.
I can describe the tasks to you exactly how they went:
Firstly, my friends would find their victim on the streets, man or woman, hooker or homeless, didn't matter. They would find the means to knock them unconscious and were careful in making sure nobody else was around. My friends, so clever, they only went to the darkest of locations to snag their victims.
Secondly, they would wrap the body in a bag, typically a trash-bag, but, if my friends were short of such an item, they'd just toss it into the trunk and drive off.
Like I've said, I was not controlling myself, my friends were. I could never accomplish such a task with so much preciseness. I only reaped the benefits of my erection entering the unconscious body afterwards.
Thirdly, my friends would stop in a large, grassy field where no lights bothered them, allowing them to go to work with the body like a canvas—yes, it was art. Stealthily, they'd grab the feet and head and pull it out of the trunk. Unwrapping the sleeping person from his or her bag.
Fourthly, my favorite part, was when they began to undress the body. That's when my erection would start to grow, my heartbeat beating so fast that it scratched at my lungs, my mind intruded by dozens of thoughts, my body warming up—my friends! Haha! My friends gave me the pleasure to do what I wished with the body! My fantasies were so profound that I could never do them upon the dead. No. Only the living would suffice! My erection would grow bigger and bigger until it was as stiff as a stone.
The body laying right before me—I recall it all!—down to the very red dirt it laid sleeping upon. My friends would tell me to make use of my erection, and I did every time. The bodies would twitch when I penetrated them, but the pleasure I felt—oh my! Yes!—Faster and faster every stroke, man or woman, didn't matter. My friends! How I have served you!
And when everything was finished, my erection shriveling up after the white custard spilled into the body's tight anus, I would then be told by my friends to bury the body. I'd take my shovel, bash the victim's head in until nothing but red puss remained of his or her face, and would dig a deep hole that I'd stuff it in.
The whole time my friends would tell me. “Good job, John. Good job.”