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| I don't remember where or how I met her. Or how it was we first
had sex. What I remember most is her skin. It was sort of middle European bronze; a light, light toffee. It seemed burnished and gave the impression of being translucent, covering something you could almost see beneath it. It wasn't without blemishes. There were a couple of darker birthmarks and a mole or two but they seemed only to add to the fathomlessness. As she would sit astride me that skin would stretch over her belly and extend above me to her breasts. They were one of the rules - I never touched her breasts. If I reached up to hold or caress one she would impatiently brush my hand away. So there they were. Not big, not small - a little more than a handful each, I guess. There was a seductive crease under each of them, betraying their weight. They swayed rather than jiggled with the rhythm of her movements. Her nipples seemed always pert, erect, as if on guard, sniffing for danger. I knew the rule although she had never stated it. I wasn't able to resist, though, and each time I would try and each time she would perfunctorily push my hands away. That was another of the rules. No talking. Or, at least, no unavoidable talking. I would answer the door and she would be there. I would say Hi but she would just walk past to my bedroom. Sometimes I would wake to find her naked, sliding under the blankets. Had my housemate let her in, or did she come in through the window, I would wonder. My housemate never mentioned her. As I would follow her into my room she'd already be getting undressed - shirt, shoes, socks, jeans, knickers. Quickly, efficiently, as if she were at the doctor's surgery for some sort of medicine, injection or regular therapy. Of course, I followed her lead and also undressed. No lingering glances or strokes, No 'how's your day been?', 'want a glass of water?', or 'you're looking good'. We'd slide into bed and, before I had even positioned myself or begun to cuddle or kiss her, she'd push me on my back and straddle me. She'd dribble some saliva onto my prick, make sure it was evenly coated with an even rub all round the member and then ease herself onto me. Then she would sigh. That was almost always her first utterance. An expression of release. Like the first drink at the end of a long stressful day or arrival at one's destination after a long, noisy train trip. Just the sort of sigh I could sense she felt all the way to her spine. I would begin to wonder what sort of day she did have. What she wanted to happen that night. How she wanted to feel after it. She would begin to move. A slow, studied rise and fall as she slid herself up and down my cock. She would push our pubic bones against each other hard, as if she needed me further inside her although I would feel myself against her cervix. Sometimes I could even feel the string of her IUD. And then up, her labia sucking at my balls, trying to pull them into her as she let my dick come almost out. As I watched her above me I would wonder who she was. How did I meet her? How come I didn't even remember her name? Had I ever known it? Why did she keep coming back? Was I that good or was I the only person she knew who would do her this favour? Slowly, steadily we would both slide into our orgasms. They weren’t pyrotechnic, thrashing about Hollywood comings. Mine was a flushing, like warm chocolate, flowing through my whole body. For her I don't know. There were no pantings or screams. Just another deep sigh, as if from her whole body. Afterwards we would lay together, her smiling for the first time, me wondering. And the blood. There was always blood. And plenty of it. All over my dick and balls, in my thatch, down my legs to my knees and, somehow, up to my belly. And she would be the same, blood all down her thighs and through her pubic hair. And that special smell of blood mixed with sex, the harshness of iron against the voluptuousness of absorption. I never had breakfast with her. We didn't even have a coffee together the next morning. We never discussed world politics or the price of bread. With the dawn she would shower, thank me and leave. That went on for eight months. Eight fucks, ruled by the blood. And then it stopped. She just stopped arriving. I never saw her again. I didn't learn her name or anything else about her except that one urgent need. And I miss the blood. |
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12.07.06: Scarlet Letters -- in case it isn't glaringly obvious -- is currently
on an extended hiatus. The web has changed, we've changed, and
we're trying to figure out how we both fit together now, which isn't a process we want to rush. If you're looking for more current SL-related content, you can
have check out upcoming books from editor Heather Corinna and previous co-editor Hanne Blank, check out Heather's current sexuality sites, or explore sites through the femmerotic network. We hope to be back with you soon, as fresh, challenging and
unexpected as ever.
In the meantime, by all means, enjoy our years of past content,
all of which still remain in the public and subscription areas.
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