The Orgasm of Death and the Death Birth Ritual

By Thomas Rengstorff

The occult, the hidden truths always piqued her interest. To become young again she would need to perform the "death birth ritual." The only problem was that she would have to die first.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas Rengstorff
• Release date: Apr 18, 2010
• ISBN: 9781476292229

Thomas Rengstorff

Thomas Rengstorff, author and a long time resident of Los Angeles has written horror for many years. Mr. Rengstorff says, "When I get an idea for a story, it won't let me alone. It follows me. It haunts me. It possesses me until finally the obsession to write the story overtakes my good senses and I ultimately put pen to paper and exercise the demon. Thus I write and I am finally free--until the next demon comes." Latest books: 1. Grandma and the Horror on North Thirteenth Street. 2. Tommy's Oblong Box 3. The Death-Birth Ritual.

Book preview

Foreword

From the gothic horror story of Frankenstein’s monster rising from its slab, to the biblical story of Jesus rising from his stone covered tomb, the subject of eternal life through some means of cheating death be it a Godly process or demonic, has intrigued readers for eons.

The story you are about to read exploits the subject of immortality in the more gothic horror tradition leaving any religious revelations to the sages.

My wife was crazy. She’d always been crazy. Crazy ideas about death. Crazy ideas about birth. She’d read books. She’d read many books. Titles such as Life After Life, Have You Lived Here Before, Ancient Mid-Eastern Cults and Rituals, Explorations and Research into Past Lives came to live on her black nightstand. She was absorbed by her books, God love her.

I was sane. One life, one death and it’s over. I read sports and computer magazines. I watched TV. I played golf. I was normal. She was nuts. I loved her.

Every night it was the same old ritual, a ritual that kept our love new; she would first close her current occult book, stabbing her dagger-bookmark in between its pages to hold her place. She would then slip off her black lace panties and then her silken black bra exposing maroon red nipples and pear shaped breasts to my voyeuristic eyes and the stark white light from her Sears reading lamp. She always slept nude. The book and its dagger-bookmarker would be randomly dropped on top of her nightstand. She would turn out her bedside light and kiss me lightly on the forehead, and turning away from me, would curl up to go to sleep.

Knowing well the nightly ritual that made our life happy, I would then turn off the TV not caring if the news was over, kick off my silk boxers, pushing them to the floor with my foot and put my arms around her crisscrossing her chest. I would next awaken her feminity by holding one breast in each hand gently rubbing her deep red nipples between thumbs and pointer fingers to push-button erections. Feeling her sleepy nude body pressed closely to mine would cause my awakened manhood to push deeply into her warm waiting female crevasse. I would gently bite her on the neck while our intercourse would gradually quicken until we each in turn died in blissful pleasure. Ah, we had so much life from our petit mort.

She kept her books by her bedside on the shelf inside of her black Art Deco night