Red

by Raine McIntyre

(Darkness belongs to such as these.)

 

Of all the multitude of colors that grace the universe, both the visible and invisible spectrums, red is truly the best.  Red is primal and hot, never cold as blue tends to be.

Red is basic and vibrant, yet rich and warm.  Some of the best things in life are red:  apples and cherries — ripe, sweet and juicy — roses that smell of spring and the newness of love; and of course, blood.

Blood is the epitome of life and death, good and evil, yin and yang, male and female, the perfection of synchronicity.  To have it is life, to lose it death.  Blood, you see, is my obsession, or one of them.  The second is women.

Not any particular, specific woman, but women as a whole.  The curve of a hip, the smell of arousal, the sweet salty taste of skin naked upon red satin sheets.  Together, blood and women are irresistible.

Ah, the hunt.  After eons and countless beauties, there is still nothing more exciting.  I wait patiently for just the right one.  The woman whose blush will touch all the right spots - her cheeks, her lips, the tops of her breasts - and draw her nipples taut.  A fine sheen of sweat will glisten on her forehead and her neck.  A single drop will find its way down her cleavage, taking the path I know I'll soon follow.

Her body will be lush and full of promise, her eyes gleaming and dilating only for me.  Her musky scent will draw me near and drive me crazy.  Small talk and other requisite social niceties are merely contributors to the exquisite pain of anticipation.  I'll know that soon she will be mine.  All mine and only mine, for all time.

There she is.  She knows and I know.  At this time, in this place, the dance has begun.  She approaches and glances away feigning disinterest.  Her skin, pale as moonlight, glows with an inner iridescence framing her china doll face.  It emphasizes the crimson pout of her lips.  I smile and coyly she returns it.  The outcome decided, she is mine.  Still, we feint and parry.  The dance must spin down to the finale.

 

*     *     *     *

 

Life isn't pretty.  It’s messy, painful and difficult to bear, and in the end, winners and losers both garner the same reward.  No, life isn’t pretty — it just beats the alternative.

I hunt.  I hunt the hunter.  Prey on the predator.  All this I do for people who’ll never know who I am and what I’ve sacrificed for their illusions of peace and normalcy.  I’ve never had a normal life.  Can’t even imagine one.  I’ve seen and done things that no one should ever have to, not even in their worst nightmares.

Good and evil are never balanced and were never meant to be equals.  The pendulum swings, favoring one side and then the other.  It takes a thief to catch a thief and a killer to catch a killer. I’m the one on the left.  But the problem with getting down and dirty is that’s what you become—down and dirty.  Ideals are the first victims in the fight for ideals.

You can tell I’m the best—I’m still alive.  In my own way, I’m an optimist.  I still believe in God and Jesus, salvation and redemption, perfect good and pure evil.  I’ll die young and it won’t be pretty, but still I hope for redemption.  So, I continue on, a tool of the righteous and hunter of the eaters of souls.

Night closes in lengthening the shadows in my nameless hotel room.  The murky cover of night hides the dingy realities of the daylight hours.  Time to rock ‘n roll.

My tight sheath dress, stiletto heels, and small shoulder purse in my favorite shade of fuck-me red combine with carmine lips and nails to camouflage my deadly nature.  You wouldn’t think it possible to hide anything lethal in this getup.  Illusion is always the most valuable weapon in any arsenal.  I’m a fuckin’ candy apple on my way to Snow White and the dwarves.  One bite, no pun intended, and it’s over.  And there ain’t gonna be no charmin’ prince coming along anytime soon.

I make my way out of the hotel and into the city, as the moon emerges from behind clouds to incite the lunatics and denizens of the night.  Full and bright, it silhouettes downtown in false mood lighting.  A visceral ache tightens my loins sending frissons of pleasure snaking along my nerves.  The foreplay of anticipation is overwhelming.  If I wore panties, I’m sure they’d be soaked.  As it is, I must pause outside the bar to seize what little control I can manage to dredge up.  Peaking before procuring a dance partner just wouldn’t do.

I adjust my cleavage and stop at the door flashing my pearlies at the massive bouncer.  His lopsided grin is probably his first in many days.  Obviously, he doesn’t try smiling often.  Maybe he could practice in the mirror at the gym while he works out.  After all, bulk like his comes at a high price in time.  He would have a great smile in no time at all.

He obligingly opens the heavy door for me.  “It’s ladies’ night, honey.  Go on in.”

“Sweetie, it’s always Lady’s night.”

I sense “the one” immediately.  I inhale the trail of his scent.  Spicy.  Dangerous.  Nirvana.  My head buzzes as I grudgingly exhale.  Every nerve tingles in anticipation like Christmas day.

I close my eyes to enhance my other senses.  A distinct chill to the right raises the hair on my arm and back of my neck.   Pheromones and his quintessential aroused male fragrance drift on the multitudes of barroom odors coming from the right.  I listen for the telltale rustle of my prey and detect the timbre of his voice.

Turning to the right, I can tell he’s aware of my presence.  “Here I am.  Come and get it.  You know you want to.”  The scent of his arousal increases, sending excruciating waves of ecstasy deep into my groin.  An inadvertent moan escapes my throat and I open my eyes.

I spot him across the room speaking to some bimbo.  We lock gazes and the room drops away.  I start toward him.  The bimbo frowns and looks my way.  Her eyes shoot daggers at me as she turns and stalks away.

“Sister, you ought to be thanking me.  You don’t know how lucky you just got.”

Walking past him to the jukebox against the wall, I glance back over my shoulder and catch the confusion on his face giving way to a smile.  An intimate smile suggesting many possibilities and making no promises.

Now there’s a smile.  Pity.  He could have given Smiley, the Incredible Hulking Doorman, lessons.  I turn back to study the jukebox.

He approaches my shoulder and leans over to whisper in my ear, “You like music?”

“Oh, yeah.”  I look up into his black as midnight eyes and pretend I don’t see how soulless they are.  “But I think we need more metal.”  I choose Godsmack’s “I Stand Alone”, my theme song.  The raucous notes blast energy into the room setting the mood and curling my toes.  I turn toward him and lean back, my ass and hands on the jukebox behind me.  “Much better.”

He steps closer, crowding me; a power play that I expected.  Still, delightful shivers of fear course through me, heightening the pleasure.  Oh, yea.  This is gonna be good.

He extends his move by trapping me with his hands against the jukebox on either side of my hips.  I remain motionless.  You have to lead the fish, dangle the bait.  Just another brick in the wall...

“So, what do I call you?”  His eyes widen in feigned interest.  Nice touch.

I smile drawing out each moment to savor later at my leisure.  “Red will do.”

He laughs.  Maybe in surprise.  “Perfect.”

“I like it.”  I wait for his complete attention.  “And what do I call you?”

“Dante.”

Moving my hands to his chest, I lightly caress the cool silk of his shirt with my fingertips.  Armani.  Nice, he has style.  The old ones always do.

“Well, Dante, now that the social niceties are out of the way, shall we begin our descent into Hell?”  We both laugh at my joke—me for the irony, and him in politeness.  I slide my fingers into his hair and wrap my hands around his skull to pull his head down to mine.  I run my tongue along his bottom lip.  He groans and takes control.  He slides his hands to my hips pulling me off the machine and into the proof of his interest.  I let him.  Just another brick in the wall...

 

*     *     *     *

 

When you finally get fine Bordeaux after years of Ripple, you appreciate not only the differences in bouquet and flavor, but also the ambience, the total orgasmic experience.  Tonight Red is my Bordeaux.  Just the memory of her alone will satiate me through the countless years of Ripple to come.

We give the cabdriver a free show that probably has him jacking off right now.  Red’s porcelain skin is flawless, even with her natural fiery hair.  I lick and nibble my way over her curves mapping them.  We barely make it over the threshold of my room before I slide her dress up her body and over her head.  Only her thigh-high stockings and stilettos now clad her lithe figure.

Her moist, succulent fragrance wafts toward me, invading my senses, seeping into my pores.  I pull away for a moment to admire the exquisite creature before me.  Her body in shadowy relief, the dim light accentuates the perfection of her alabaster curves.

Though this is the closest I’ll come to Heaven, I find myself rushing, eager to partake of her bounty.  After paying due homage to her pert breasts, I decide on the appetizer, an aperitif to take the edge off my hunger.  I enclose her hand in mine, kiss her delicious “ladyfingers”, and lead her to my bed.  She hesitates, so I smile in reassurance.

Sitting her on the edge of the bed, I kneel in front of her.  I run my hands down her arms to her legs and lift them over my shoulders.  Pulling her to the edge of the bed, I open her like a flower and sip from the nectar of her nether lips, caressing and exploring the folds as they swell and weep in joyful ecstasy.

Feasting on the honey, I avoid the nub that will send her over.  She leans back on her elbows and throws her head back groaning.  The pulse in her throat accelerates adding to the music of her moans.

Finally, I take her clit and suckle pushing her into her first climax.  I continue caressing her with my tongue ‘till she stills.  She stares down at me with an eerie lack of emotion, then smiles relieving my momentary unease.  She leans forward kissing me gently.

“Your turn.”

Her gaze never leaving mine, she stands, pulling me up with her and slowly, deliberately unbuttons my shirt.  She slides it off my shoulders and down my arms, dropping it to the floor.  After unhooking my belt and unzipping my pants, she removes my sockless shoes and sets them aside.  She pushes my pants down freeing my erection, and
pauses to admire it, making it unbelievably harder.  I kick my pants to the pile with my shirt, and she pushes me to sit on the bed.  She kneels and takes me into her warm mouth, using her wicked tongue to bring me to the brink, but stops just short.  Such a talented little mouth.

 

*     *     *     *

 

The glint in his eye makes me feel like the main course at a glutton’s banquet.  Yet, even now, his caress is controlled lust, tender and soothing.  This is the line.  Darkness sings its siren song.  It glitters and shines disguising the cesspool behind the facade.  Each time I flirt with the boundary, tempted to give in and dive into the tar pit, allowing it to cover me, hide me, pull me into the peaceful nothingness, but I pull back.  Someday I won’t.

In the final analysis, I know the alluring darkness to be illusion, a snare for the unwary.  But like a mosquito in amber, a fly trapped in the spider’s web, I embrace my doom.  A healthy death wish is necessary to survive.  Alas, who is the fly and who the spider?

We make our way to the bed and he surprises me.  Sitting me on the edge of his bed, he goes down on me, eating me out in a thorough manner.  He deserves a reward.

I strip him and change places on the bed.  His freed cock is magnificent and imposing.  Reverently, I take the head into my mouth and let my tongue explore.  Moving down, my tongue strokes the large veins and sensitive underside.

I bring him to the brink and stop.  Regretfully, it’s time for the piece de resistance.  I stand and tell him to move toward the center of the bed while I remove my heels.

He watches as I crawl up his body and then grabs me around the waist to flip us.  His lower body rests on me, his legs outside mine.  His upper body rests on his elbows as we stare into each other’s eyes.

He brushes the hair from my face.  “Ah, Chère, if only I could keep you.”

He lowers his lips to mine in a tender kiss.  In spite of infrequent use, my heart is touched and I nearly relent.  Nearly, but the moment passes leaving me anxious to be done with it and crawl back into my detached world of numbness.  Mirrored on his face, I see what my expression must be.  The time has come.

He rises up and moves his legs between mine.  His eyes lock onto mine as he enters and we begin the final dance, the most intimate of all.

 

*     *     *     *

 

We’ve come to the end game.  Soon comes La Petite Morte, “The Little Death”.  Such a shame.  I would like to have savored her for many nights, but like a rose, beauty is to be enjoyed in the moment for it fades and dies regardless.

I enter her and move slowly to prolong the moment.  She matches my rhythm, thrusting her hips to bring sharper pleasure. Petite, you are a treasure.  Rarely have I enjoyed such delight.

Our intoxicating cadence drums faster.  I feel the roiling climax approach, and she turns her head, offering me her throat.  The pulse draws me.  As I climax, I sink my fangs into the throbbing largess.  Her blood pours into my mouth, rich and sweet—a crimson bounty.  As she floods her life essence into me, I feel it bring her and I spill my
seed deep within.

It is enough and too much.  I release her throat and withdraw rolling to my back.  It’s a shame really, what I have to do to slake the thirst, satisfy the need that owns me.

 

*     *     *     *

 

My body follows his lead in the centuries old dance.  The rhythm enslaves me and I move without thought, climbing to the peak.

The web tattoo on the back of my neck tingles signaling the auspicious moment.  I move my head to the side and feel his incisors slice into my exposed throat.  Warmth floods my limbs as I cum, welcoming his life-giving seed.

He finishes and releases me.  I lay replete waiting for the contractions of pleasure to stop...and to give him time to succumb.

Silent moments pass as my breathing returns to normal.  Already his body loses heat. In a stupor, he has yet to realize his fate.  Oh, well, it is the way of the world.  One dies, another is born—the ebb and flow of life.  Just another brick in the wall...

 

*     *     *     *

 

A euphoric lethargy spreads throughout my body.  I feel her rise and sense her dressing.  For a long time my brain refuses to accept the obvious.  She crosses my field of vision and I spy the tattoo on her nape as she piles her hair up and replaces her lipstick.  Understanding comes too late.  I’d panic if it would help, but, alas, the final turn of the cards went against me and the game is finished.  All that remains is to clear the table.

She stops next to the bed and sits beside me.  I spot the regret in her eyes as she pushes the hair from my forehead.  “I know it doesn’t help, but I really do wish things could be different.  If it makes you feel any better, you won’t be forgotten.  You’ve fathered the next generation of ‘Black Widows’.”

She rises and stares down at me for a few moments.  “I like you, so it will be quick.  I’ve made sure you received extra venom.  It will ensure a speedy, painless death.”  She shrugs.  “Some days you eat the bear, and some days the bear eats you.”

She bends over and kisses my forehead, undoubtedly leaving traces of her lipstick behind.  As she walks out of my room, I silently contemplate existence and how I’ll be found dead, a probable heart attack victim, an unknown businessman, alone in his hotel room, no family to contact, red lipstick prints on his forehead.  My last conscious thought is how ironic the whole thing is.  If I could only move to laugh about it...

 

 

 

2005 by Raine McIntyre (All Rights Reserved)

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