How the Grave Digger Hunted Me Down in Lust

My name is Jenna Jameson. I'm twenty, in my first year at university in a small town in the Midlands, England. I'm not what people call classically beautiful, but I know boys look. My skin is a warm olive tone, my breasts are noticeably large, and even when I walk in loose joggers my bum sways enough to draw eyes. I don't flaunt it, but I notice.

Last autumn my grandfather passed away. Our village is quiet, old stone cottages along narrow lanes. The whole street came to the house for the wake. Mum and Dad were busy with relatives, so I helped with small things—making tea, clearing cups, keeping the kettle on.

Two men from the council estate were hired to handle the heavier jobs—moving chairs, carrying the coffin later. Both in their late thirties. One was called Karl. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, quiet. He wore just an old tracksuit bottom, no underwear. I didn't mean to look, but when I turned to carry a tray past him, it was there—thick, heavy, hanging like overripe fruit. My breath caught. He caught me staring. I hurried inside, cheeks burning.

Later he smirked when our eyes met again. I pretended not to notice. Then he called softly from the doorway, "Jenna, love, can I have some water?" I was in a thin nightdress with a cardigan over it. I fetched a glass. When he took it our fingers brushed. He held my gaze. "You saw, didn't you? What did you think?"

I snatched the empty glass back and fled to the kitchen. My heart hammered.

The next day he was still around, helping clear. Every time I passed he adjusted his trousers so I could see the outline. Once he asked for more water. I brought it. He followed me into the narrow pantry. The door was half-open but the house was noisy with people talking.

He stood close. "Scared?" he whispered.

"Yes. Someone might see."

"No one's coming in here." He drank, then set the glass down. "Tell me—did it look big?"

I tried to push past. He caught my wrist gently and pressed my hand to the front of his tracksuit. It was warm, solid, already thickening. "Feel that?"

My legs felt weak. I yanked my hand away. "Stop. Please."

He let go but squeezed my breast once—firm, quick—then stepped back. "First time a man's touched you like that?"

I ran upstairs and locked myself in the bathroom. My nipple tingled where he'd grabbed. I hated how my body responded.

Two days later I needed the outside toilet—our house still has the old one across the yard. It was four in the morning, still dark. Everyone asleep. I crept out in my nightdress. Karl was waiting near the hedge.

"Didn't think you'd come," he said.

"I didn't. I'm just going to the loo."

He smiled. "Liar. You want to see it again."

I should have screamed or run. Instead I followed him behind the big oak where no one could see. Moonlight barely reached us.

He pulled me against the trunk, pinned my wrists above my head with one hand. His mouth found my neck. I gasped. Then he kissed me—rough, hungry. I kissed back. His free hand slid under my nightdress, cupped my breast, thumbed the nipple until it ached.

"You're shaking," he murmured.

"I'm frightened."

"Good. Makes it real."

He lifted my nightdress. No bra. He sucked one nipple, then the other, hard enough to make me whimper. His fingers found my knickers, pushed them aside, stroked. I was already wet. He chuckled low. "Knew you were curious."

He knelt, pushed my thighs apart, licked once—long, slow. My knees buckled. He held me up, tongue circling, then pushing inside. I moaned into my own hand. It felt filthy and perfect.

After a minute he stood, dropped his tracksuit. His cock sprang free—thick, veined, dark. Bigger than I'd imagined. He guided my hand to it. I stroked, fascinated. He groaned.

"Suck it."

I hesitated. He pressed the head to my lips. I opened. Salty, hot. I took what I could. He didn't force, just rocked gently. My jaw ached but I kept going, tasting him.

He pulled out, turned me around, bent me forward. "Gonna go slow."

He rubbed the head along me, then pushed. It hurt—sharp stretch. I bit my lip. He paused, kissed my shoulder. "Breathe, love."

Inch by inch he filled me. When he bottomed out I felt impossibly full. He started moving short thrusts, then longer. Pain faded into heat. I pushed back. He gripped my hips, slapped my arse lightly. "That's it. Take it."

We moved faster. I came first—shuddering, biting my arm to stay quiet. He followed, groaning, spilling deep inside me.

We stood panting. He kissed my neck. "Tomorrow night. Same time."

I nodded, dazed.

For the next week we met in the dark—behind the tree, once in his shed. Each time rougher,hungrier. He taught me things I'd only seen online. I learned how much I liked being held down, filled, marked.

When the funeral was over and the house quiet again, he stopped coming. I heard he'd moved for better work up north. No goodbye.

I still feel him sometimes late at night, fingers between my legs, remembering that first stretch, that first flood of heat. I was never the same innocent girl after Karl