Covered in Red
Red. I held fiery red in my hands.
She was amazing, with fiery red hair. I didn’t even mind all of the freckles
covering her. I have to say that there is something about the hue of natural red
hair. She made everything perfect. Even more that I had thought it ever could
be.
She was already drunk when I happened upon her. She asked me if I meant her any
harm. She was so beautiful with her big, light green eyes. I could instantly see
from the first time that I lay my eyes upon her that even as a little girl she
always had the perfect way to coax anything she wanted from her parents. She
also probably got what ever she wanted from every man she ever met. I couldn’t
resist her either, and so I had to tell her the truth.
“Of course I intend to harm you. I plan on doing horrible, horrible things to
you… all night long.”
That was the perfect answer to her inquiry. Within the hour I had her back in my
small, but very well kept studio apartment. Her cries were melodic,
intentionally so. She was perfect. Her moans were a song upon my ears. Her body
was art to my eyes. Her body was covered in red and sweat… and some smell I
swear I recognize.
I don’t know what it was about her, but she brought out something so primal in
me, and she did it over and over again. I loved the way that her breasts moved.
I admit I have a thing for large breast on thin girls. It’s something about the
way they feel, the way that they give into every little touch. I’m getting so
tired of all the fakes. I prefer real breasts, with real shape and real
movement. Fake breasts are dead, two lifeless bags being carried by a vain mule.
Covering her entire body was a precious pink hue, spotted by those fantastic red
freckles. Her moans became animalistic growls. She was a cheetah, hungry with
lust, covered in spots and attempting to devour me in her lust. As I stared into
those big innocent eyes I could see her back when she was still a little girl. I
can imagine her running around her home and I could even vision her through the
loving gaze of her Father. I wonder if in some way if I could be just like her
Father.
So red, the bristling hairs that covered her mons venus. The way it’s curve
sloped over that area. I could never get tired of rubbing my hand over the
natural arch of this so sacred body part. My body moves atop of hers, my fingers
pushing her apart and I place myself deep into her slippery body. She throws her
head back, her red lips being bit into by her own teeth.
I come, and shortly after I come again, and I swear I remember this smell.
Her red hair lies lifeless upon my old dingy white pillow. Soon she passes out.
Me, I can’t sleep, but of course I haven’t had nearly as much to drink as she
has. As I grab the nine inch steel blade from under my bed I can’t help but to
think of her father. What she needs now is a priest. She would have been the
apple of her father’s eye. Her soft crimson hair beckons my fingers and I caress
her tender female head. She is amazing and I hate her.
I wonder again about her father. Her siblings would have hated her for the
attention she must have received from her beloved daddy. He probably thought of
her as a princess, praying nightly that she never fall into the grasp of the
demons that roam the night.
I wondered from what crimson tide she was able to spring forth such red from her
skin. I wanted to possess her, yet I knew that our time together was growing
short. Her glowing green eyes now rest under the soft fold of skin as she slept.
I sucked ever so gently upon her life giving pink nipples and I fondled the
giving tissue that was so warm and inviting me in time and again. I was hard as
a metal dagger and placed myself into her unconscious body. She was slippery
still and felt softer that anything I had ever felt, or could compare another
to. I had the feeling as though I could thrust my entire self deep into her rust
hue. I thrust harder and harder, her body shaking, though still not waking.
So red indeed, surrounding me. The cut was easy as I always keep that knife
razor sharp. I slide it into her stomach with little resistance. I was careful
not to cut myself as I continued thrusting myself deep into her. I pushed the
blade hard up into her body and I soon came hard into her once again. It was an
experience I wish I could share with the world. Her eyes snapped open and a very
odd noise escaped her lips. I covered her mouth with hand and could soon feel
her choking and gurgling under the pressure of my sweaty palm. She didn’t try to
scream or fight, though her body did spasm as I pushed further into her flesh
with the knife. As the wound grew I placed my hand inside of her, her warm blood
gushing out over her belly and onto my rigid, nude body. Still I wonder from
what amazing crimson spring did all of this fiery redness spring from. I swear I
know this smell.
This is a world where our children grow up upon sharp knives, and while I sensed
a little melancholy, overall I felt joy- I see something extraordinarily
beautiful in all of this. So beautiful that it has to hurt.
After she stops moving I remove my hand. Her once pink lips are painted red as
blood has sprung up and spilled out of her mouth. I kiss her again and she
tastes like home. All this red, my hands covered in a bounty. Her stomach is
covered in a garnet puddle. She has become even more beautiful to me. I place my
hand inside of her open gashes and caress her slippery insides. It makes me sad
to know it’s almost over between us. One night affairs always seem so tragic to
me. Her beautiful red hair is still calling out to me. I ran my hands across her
head again, her hair becoming sticky in her own blood. And still she grows even
more beautiful. I cannot imagine how proud her father would be. I don’t think he
would even recognize her for the butterfly she has become.
Her body has become so heavy now that she’s no longer here. I know it is wrong
to still lust her now that she has left but I can’t help myself sometimes.
Sometimes I am the foulest sinner. So of course I penetrate her again. Her body
is still so very warm. I make love to her most sweetly now. I try to be tender
inside of her majestic body. It means more to me than it ever did the times
before. Now I worship her, and I come in her sweetly, those green eyes never
turning away from me. I wonder if she would mind if I kept them, if I promise to
be tender. My hands, my body, covered in her red. I swear I recognize the smell,
but for the life of me I can’t remember from where.
Copyright by Marcus Dessant (2001).