WARNING: All characters are 18 . Or way, way older, if you consider Necromancers to be immortal. Also, don't try to emulate any of the acts in this script, including unwanted resurrections.

Summary: You are an ancient, powerful, and beautiful necromancer, who needs a new lover. You have selected a (the listener) to bring to life for this purpose, and when he awakens, you make it your mission to teach him who he belongs to. Also, there are flashbacks in this script, which allude to his past life.

In collaboration with the amazing u/DesperateDoll who provided critical feedback/editing.

This script is a repost after the original scriptoffer was lost in the pastebin purge last year.

Permissions: I, Mental_Trap, give permission to anyone to edit, re-write, or use any part of this for non-commercial use within the GWA community. For commercial use please message reddit user u/Mental_Trap

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START

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The first time I claim you, you are just waking up.

Truly, waking up. Your flesh is still cold--with the lingering scent of earth. The roaring fire in the pot-belly stove is starting to loosen your muscles. And the smoke of burning polyester fills the little cabin, making you cough. Remnants of your burial suit blacken in the stove.

You are on your knees, on a chair, facing the high wooden back. Your skin has been washed. Water drips down the thick ropes that bind you. You clutch the chairback like a drowning man, shivering and confused. You are aware, finally. And the first thing you see...is me. Your mistress.

I am dressed in funeral black with a gauzy veil over my face. You watch me, spellbound, as I unzip the back of my chiffon dress. I let it slide down my body, my ample curves, my smooth legs... I give you a little show; revealing the sinful accoutrements I’ve worn underneath. Black leather corset and gloves. Silver fasteners. Buckles. Black stockings. Shiny black boots.

I turn--boots clicking on the floor, and you see me holding a rosewood case. I open it for you. Inside, nestled on red velvet, is a black strap-on with a heavy silicone phallus.

You say nothing. You don’t dare move. You are studiously blank, perhaps fearing your reaction might displease me. You don’t know *why* you fear displeasing me. Not yet. But the instinct is there...buried deep in your chest.

I lean close. You smell skin and rosewater soap. I whisper, and my lips brush your ear.

“I want this.” I say. “And so you want it too, don’t you?”

You freeze. Silent. Unable to deny me. Unable, even, to voice your fear...staring at the impressive strap-on.

I give you a sharp, knowing smile, and I move to stand behind you. You hear me slide out of my underwear. Buckles jangle as I pull the harness tight.

"Beautiful boy" I murmer, staring at your naked vulnerable body.

I pour oil into my hand, and I smooth it over my cock in long, slow strokes. Your legs are shaking. Your head is swimming. Still, you say nothing.

Finally, I ask you a question I know you can answer.

“Do you wish to please your mistress?”

“Yes!” You cry, as if your voice has been under lock and key.

You feel me grip your hips with firm, gloved hands, and I glide my cock into you in one, fluid stroke.

As a mortal man you might have tensed against the shock of what I’m doing. However, imbued with preternatural love and trust for your mistress, you become pliant to my vigorous fucking.

My cock fills you; stirs you from the inside, very soon you are gasping... and so am I.

Little grunts of surprise and pleasure escape your lips. You pant, breathless, and wanton for me. But it's your compliance, your willingness, that brings me true joy.

"You’re such a good boy" I gently enjoy the feel of your ass, your lower back, and your thighs under my fingers, while I claim you.

Between the roughness of my cock plunging in and out of you, and my gentle caresses, you don’t last long.

You grunt and strain against the bonds, and when I see you’re about to release, I lean forward and hilt myself on you. So you can feel my body spooning against your back.

You come, gasping, shaking... finally warm. Finally alive.

I leave you, quaking and clutching the chairback. I walk around in front of you, cock dripping, and place my hand lightly on a concrete block, sitting incongruously on the table in front of you. Something stirs in your mind, a memory.

Nothing is clear to you. Just flashes. Speeding along an old back-road. The X-ray of your chest, peaking out from the manila folder on the passenger seat. The doctor's sad grimace as she had explained what it meant. Looking back at the road just too late to avoid the block placed in the centre of the carriageway. Steel screeching. Flipping, rolling. Black and white flashes and spraying glass. Then the water, enveloping you.

“Poor boy... you’re shivering."

I collect a steaming cup from the table, and I see your lip quiver.

I gently slap your beautiful tear streaked face, and I see blood where your teeth have cut your lip. The shock... the confusion in your eyes is too perfect. I can’t help bending down and taking your lip between mine in a dizzying, bruising kiss.

I hold the cup to your mouth, urging you to drink. You do. The taste of hibiscus... the tartness of it... draws your mind back. And you remember your awakening. You remember the first sip I gave you...

You were dead through-and-through. Life had left you, as sure as anything you had known.

...You remember drowning. Yet you felt cold, and numb. Sensations that belong to the living.

That’s when you saw me, still in my funeral gown, stirring a drop of blood into the pot with a long, pearl-head needle. This is very old magic. Simple. Nothing flashy.

Your body had begun its atrophy, but it was only death--nothing I couldn't reverse. Your illness hadn't yet ravaged you. I plucked you long before that withering could begin.

I cleaned you everywhere. Touched everything. Sometimes I used my lips in my exploration, but not too much. Not yet.

When you were clean, I took a silver knife from the tray and made a narrow incision, just below your breastbone. Then slit my own thumb, and used a wad of cotton batting - the sort one would use to stuff a doll - to staunch the bleeding. Crimson flowed into the white cotton, wicking the blood, until it looked like a tuft of red cloud. Looking intently into your eyes I slid the red cotton into your incision. Then I sewed you shut with black thread.

I held the tea up to your mouth and bade you drink, finalising the magic.

By the time you finish the tea, again sweetened by my blood, the pallor has returned to your skin. The cloudiness has left your eyes. Definition flows into your muscles, and blood moves through your veins.

Your arms are still tied, and you clasp your hands, chin down, like a schoolboy. I hold your head to my breast and I stroke your hair and whisper to you, comforting you, until you’re calm again.

“Are you frightened?” I ask.

You don’t say anything. You don’t look at me. But I feel your neck twitch, trying to nod.

“Would you like me to help you to forget?”

Hesitantly, you nod, looking up, and I pluck a heavy black switch from the table.

“You are such a good, sweet boy. But you're so scared. You don't know who you are. *What* you are. I am going to teach you.”

I am cruel, this first time. The swish and crack of the first blow resonate through the room. I strike you over and over, while you sob. I draw glowing red stripes...then welts...and finally lines of blood that crisscross your thighs and ass. You are shaking when I pause.

“You didn't know if you were really alive, did you? You did die, my sweet boy. But here you are now. Pain - real, livid pain - is undeniable, no?”

You sob, quietly, but I can see you processing my words.

When I untie you from the chair I see your legs buckle. You’re exhausted, but I’m not done with you yet.

I lead you, stunned, to your true home. To the back of the cabin, where I lay you across the foot of my bed. You collapse in a puddle on warm, black silk. And you watch, eyes lidded, as I strip off my leathers.

I see you stir, aroused once more. And you crawl to me. I spread my legs, and I take your chin in my fingers and guide you toward my clit. I moan as your tongue snakes out to lap at me.

I wonder, do you remember your funeral? Do you remember being lowered into the ground? Do you remember me, watching, among the mourners, like an arsonist returning to the crime?

You don’t seem to recall these things, as I slide my heels along your back, bucking my hips toward your mouth. But memory is a fickle thing for the dead. Perhaps you *do* remember, but you would rather not. Not with me here. Not with my cunt in your mouth, and my juices on your chin.

I moan, and I squirm, and I knot my fists in your hair. I come, hard, and sighing contently to myself, smile down at you.

“Good boy,” I whisper. And you know who you belong to. You know, as long as I am here, you are wanted. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. Beyond the shadow of death. There is only relief as you crawl to the foot of my bed; tangling yourself between my legs, warm and snug.

Warm, because you are mine. Warm, because neither death nor life have any hold over you now. You belong to me instead.