His wife was quite certainly the sexiest woman he knew.  Smart.  Clever.  Another man might say that she had lost some of her visual appeal since having their son, but he disagreed.  Child birth may have put softness in her belly and sag in her boobs, but that did not detract from her inate beauty.  She was still lovely and desirable in every way that mattered.

She was also a raging pervert.  Perhaps even more than he was.  She had welcomed every kink and fetish that he had ever asked her to try.  She had laid down her body, her will, and her very life for his sexual pleasure.  And she enjoyed it every bit as much as he did.  They had a wonderful sex life.  When he had watched her orally pleasure thier son, as the boy hanged by the neck, and he rammed his penis into her from behind, it had been as thrilling tonight as if it were brand new experience.  He would never get tired of using her that way.  Or watching their son use her.  Or her use their son.  And he watched her, now, her naked body straddling their dead son on his bed, riding his deathly erection, gaining her pleasure from the stiffness of his dead sex as she rammed it repeatedly into her warm body.

As she finished her orgasm, he could see her shudder from the after shocks.  She seemed to sag with weariness, her tongue lolling out as she panted to catch her breath.  She turned her face his way, and a smile crept along the edges of her muzzle.  

"It's a shame the boy is dead," she said, with her tail gently wagging. "He'll be sorry he missed that."

He reached out to help her rise from the bed where their dead son lay.  "We'll tell him about it in the morning, after he recovers."  He smiled, his tail also swinging gently back and forth.  "I'm sure he'll appreciate it."

She leaned on him as she unsteadily rose to her paws.  Then with a grin, she put one hand on his erection.  "What about you?  Did you appreciate it?"

"Oh, yes!" he replied with calm enthusiasm.  She'd had four orgasms now, and he'd had two, and she was ready to go again if he wished it.  "Let's go to our room and I'll show you."  Confirmation that he did wish it turned her grin into a smile.

As they stepped into their bedroom, she turned and pushed her naked body against his.  Her boobs and his erection were squeezed between them.  She threw her arms around his shoulders, and pushed her muzzle to his for a deep passionate kiss.  He threw his arms around her waist, hugging her so fiercely that it lifted her paws from the floor.  They held the embrace long enough that the kiss started to rob them both of breath.  When they finally stopped, he could see in her eyes that she was deeply aroused.

"What is my master's pleasure?" she growled.  'Master" was it?  That told him what she was in the mood for.  He did not allow his smile to actually show on his face.  

"I think - that you should be punished for taking advantage of our son that way.  Using his body as a sex toy, after hanging him?  That was cruel."

She pouted, prettily.  "Yes, master.  And what punishment do you have in mind?"

He stepped away from her.  Then reached with one paw to pull at the little step stool by the bed.  She knew immediately what he had in mind.  That step stool had only one place in their sex play.

He saw a flicker of emotion in her eyes, and her tail swished briefly.  It only lasted a moment, but it spoke volumns to him.  She had hoped to be tightly bound with ropes.  Squeezed.  Beaten.  Whipped until her red fur ran scarlet with her blood.  But if he wanted something different, well, that was alright, too.  She would enjoy what he wanted every bit as much as she would have enjoy what she wanted.

She stepped over to the bureau and opened the drawer where they kept thier sex toys.  From it she pulled a coil of rope, before turning to question him with her eyes.  He sat on the edge of the bed, but said nothing.  He saw her accept that as permission to indulge herself.  She looked into the drawer, and considered for a moment, then lifted out a steel handcuff and shackle set, connected by a length of fine chain.  She knew that he liked that on her, and she raised it for his approval.  He nodded.

She set the shackles on the bureau.  Closed the drawer.  Then she hefted the rope and with practiced fingers began to make the turns for a seven turn gallows noose.   When it was finished she measured by eye a length above the noose, and tied a bowline on a loop.  Then she lifted it for his inspection.  

He nodded his approval.  As he watched her lift the noose to her head, he gently stroked his erection.  He could feel that watching her prepare was bringing him too close to orgasm.  He would have to control himself.  He actually had to stop rubbing, or he would have shot his load just seeing her put the noose around her neck.

She mounted the little step stool, with the noose dangling down between her boobs.  Carefully, she bent over to shackle her ankles.  She held the handcuffs to one side, as she lifted the bowline to the heavy duty hook mounted in the ceiling by the foot of the bed.  Then she carefully slipped the handcuffs behind her back, over her tail and locked them around her wrists.

He sat there and admired the view for a moment.  The rope from the ceiling was stretched taut to the noose that was tight around his wife's neck.  Her hands were held behind her back by the handcuffs.  The chain was just barely long enough to reach to the shackles on her ankles.  Her soft teats and visibly erect nipples were rising and falling gently as she breathed deeply.  He could see that her eyes were calm, but the tip of her tail was twitching.  As often as he had killed and ressurected her, as orgasmic as they both found it, she was always terrified by it.

He rose to his paws, and slowly stepped to her, until their fur was not quite touching.  He looked into her eyes and quietly said: "You may not pee."

He really didn't share his son's love of scat; nor his wife's love of pee.  No matter, his wife didn't really share his love of killing.  So for a moment he saw something like panic in her eyes, then begging.  She opened her muzzle to say something, but he hissed at her and snapped one hand up in a command for silence.  "You may not pee," he insisted, "until I give you permission."

With one hand he raised his penis; with the other he spread her labial lips.  He thrust forward at the hips, but the length of the rope around her neck was just enough that he could no more than barely touch.  He looked her in the eye, intending to give the final command, but she knew what to do.

She kicked back on the stool, sending it scooting across the floor, hanging herself.

The drop was just enough that she was able to impale her sex onto his.  He could hear her gagging as the rope crushed her throat.  He could feel her shoulder stiffen and her stomach quiver as she accepted the agony of strangling.  He froze, trying hard not to climax just yet.  She jerked her knees up beside his hips to widen her pubis.  Her tail flew madly and the the chain rattled.  He could see her clench her jaw to hold her mouth open against the press of the rope.  Slowly the tan of her inner ear began to turn crimson.  Her eyes began to show the faint tinge of pink creeping into the edges.  She deliberately rolled her stomach in time with clenching her sphincter.  She was trying to milk the orgasm from him before she died.  

It worked.  He grabbed her by the waist, his hips thrust madly, pounding against her, and he threw back his head to howl his climax at the ceiling, while his seed shot into her warm, wet and willing vagina.  

Trying to catch his breath, he sat hard on the bed.  

She dangled before him, tense but not moving.  Her bloodshot eyes were slipping out of focus, and reflected the agony and terror of her impending death by asphyxia.  Quickly he reached down to grab the antique chamber pot they kept under the bed.  He lifted the urn to her pelvis, and pushed one finger against her clitoris.

"Pee," he ordered, and rubbed her clit vigorously.  The warm yellow liquid shot out in a vigorous stream, and her body was wracked with the spasmodic thrashing of her orgasm.

He managed to set the chamber pot down without spilling it.  Then he flopped back on the bed, exhausted.  She was totally limp, now, and her eyes were starting to glaze over.  She was dead.  He knew he ought to get her down.  If he left her, then when she recovered in the morning she would wake up to the strangling rope.  It was a confusing and terrifying way to revive.  And it would soon enough kill her again; which meant that she would be out until the next morning, losing a day.

Later.  He barely managed to pull a blanket over his hips before he fell into a deep sleep.