Lady In Red
An Infiniflash Fiction By Kristy Nicolle
Flames rise high into the cloudless night sky, the smoke from my cigarette swirling in amongst the spitting embers.
“Chuck stop!” Teresa’s giggles grate on my sodding nerves for the last time, and I allow my eyes to rise from my doc martens to take in her limbs, tangled among chuck’s, as he gropes her without finesse.
Growling and rolling my eyes with disgust, I shift atop of the sand speckled log on which I’m sitting, bloody uncomfortable as hell and hungry for sex… no, not sex. I don’t just want a shag. I want a challenge. I want to have to work to dominate someone, to feel myself stretched thin trying to tame some wild colt.
These American girls, they’re so easy, so open to it right from the get-go, it’s hardly any fun. At least with English girls they’re bound to pretend they’re above a one-night stand before you get some spirits in them. At least there’s a chase.
Chase, seeking chase… I muse on the irony of my namesake, a smirk forming around the fast burning cigarette pinched between my lips.
I inhale sharply, the smoke from the oceanside bonfire tangling with the tobacco that plumes in a cloud around me, deterring any of the other college kids from getting even slightly close.
I don’t even know why I’ve come to this sodding thing. I have a paper due, a new lecturer to appease, and a dangerously low bank balance, but for some reason I had felt restless within the confines of my dorm, smoking out the cracked window and watching people leave for weekend partying. For some reason Teresa’s knock at the door had seemed like the solution to all my entirely bloody fixable problems.
I had forgotten about fucking Chuck.
Fumbling hands, curly hair that needs a good cut, with a mouth that’s undisciplined upon Teresa’s skin and irritating me immensely. He’s a boy playing with a naïve girl who deserves better, deserves a man who knows what he’s doing.
The crowd of strangers around us become a din of fake laughter, pathetic attempts at connection, and entirely misguided females interested in players who go through women faster than I do fags. Take a taste and discard, stomp out their spirit beneath your boot. Leave them smouldering and crushed under the weight of your magnificently masculine ego.
I should be a sodding poet.
Bloody hell. What the fuck is wrong with me.
I remember her then, the last wild woman I had tasted. The last woman who had come close to matching me step for step, our brief but hot toe to toe a brand upon my memory.
Red hair, creamy silken skin, cognac eyes. Wild in unprompted essence, but even wilder after a glass of Oxford’s finest whiskey.
I get to my feet, seeking some real alcohol, not the bullshit beer that’s being so readily passed around, but spirits, something strong enough to sedate my wandering dick as it threatens to harden at her memory.
It’s then that I hear it. Amongst the chatter and gab of the party, the crowd of tipsy, uninhibited girls, I find her.
A real woman.
As I glance closer, I find her outline against the shoreline, curvaceous and delicious, but it’s her voice which baits me. She’s singing. Her voice swirling through the salt and smoke between us, intoxicating me on a level bone deep. My abdominal muscles tighten in visceral response to her call as my feet move against my consent, staggering across the uneven and bottle-strewn sand, cigarette falling from between my lips barely noticed.
I ball my fists at my sides, veins popping close to the surface of my biceps beneath my white button up shirt. I inhale sharply as she comes into clearer focus. Hair black as sodding sin, bloody red lips, curvaceous body clad in clingy red silk. My mouth falls open, saliva rushing across my tongue in a tidal wave of want.
The incoming tide rushes over her ankles as our eyes meet, the darkness of her pupils expanding and consuming me entirely. She turns, walking out to sea, unphased by the water soaking her dress so it’s practically see-through, her face serene as freshly spun silk. She reminds me of Bertha Mason, the mad woman in red from Jane Eyre, her wildness and detachment from the realness of the world making her the realest thing I’ve ever bloody seen… and yet… her beauty, the untamed planes of her face, the inky tendrils of her windswept hair, make her undeniably dreamlike to me.
I want her.
I won’t even try to convince myself otherwise.
Her voice continues to lull me into a sense of security, which could be entirely false for all I bloody care. All I know is that I have to keep putting one foot in front of the other, have to close this distance between my quivering skin, my rabid blood, and hers.
She doesn’t speak, only continues to sing. Her lips forming around a melody equivalent to the most potent drug I’ve ever tasted, ever felt thrumming through my fragile mortal veins. The rhythm, the way her tongue caresses the notes, the way her throat purrs like a predatory cat as she inhales for the next word, makes me hard, makes me hungry for her skin, hot on mine amongst the icy froth and salt of this night-kissed summer ocean.
I’m amongst the foaming whitecaps before I notice the subsequent chill that drenches me, my black denim jeans made heavy and cold by the onslaught of the sea as I wade through the shallows toward her, a man possessed.
She stills, turning to me, arms outstretched, beckoning.
“Come to mother…” she commands me, and I feel something inside my chest snap, like any and all control I have over myself has buckled, entranced.
I reach her in what feels like an eternity, my thick leather soles making treading the water too damn slow. As I step into her arms, they encircle me immediately with a speed I’ve never seen before, but I still don’t fight her, I surrender instead, like prey in the jaws of a slow-moving and hypnotic predator.
This strange woman in red continues to unravel me as our skin meets. Cool water droplets hang from her long rust coloured fingernails, falling and trailing down the razor-sharp edge of my cheekbone in cool rivulets as she brings up a palm to cradle my face.
Her free hand presses into my chest, finding the sodden cotton of my plain white shirt between her palm and my pectorals. She tears at the fabric, frenzied as her abyssal pupils engulf any kind of building fear within me, sending buttons flying off into the darkness of the night. I notice as I manage to tear my gaze from hers for only a moment, following the trajectory of my dislodged buttons, that a crescent moon hangs overhead failing to provide any illumination upon the choppy surface of the surrounding sea.
I regret immediately looking away, as I feel her grip my chin, sending a jolt of both pain and pleasure through my jawbone as she yanks my face back, so I’m solely focused on her.
“Stare upon me, lover…” she coos, her lips parting ever so slightly, a sigh escaping them like the ghost of all the men she’s kissed before.
Her fingers dance down my jawline, then wrap around the back of my skull, pulling me close so I’m flush against her, the crimson silk of her dress like a torturously flimsy second skin as it clings to her every dip and curve. I feel her nipples harden against me as she pulls my head forward and I groan unwillingly as her lips brush against the tender skin on the inside of my neck.
Shit, yes. Just like that… I growl internally, inhaling with an ecstatic but somehow soured sharpness.
My carotid pulsates, noticeable beneath the plump of her bottom lip, teeth protruding suddenly as she nips me.
“Ow!” I complain, pulling back slightly, or at least trying to.
Vines, or something like vines lock around my ankles, rooting me to the spot, rooting me close to her. I struggle, but she merely hushes me, her voice a lethal caress in one ear that lulls my mind into a hypnotic paralysis.
I feel her break the skin, licking at me, lapping at me, the entire time my cock betraying me and bulging against the inside of my jeans, shameless.
The pain subsides as she latches on and begins to drink from me more deeply and my eyelids flutter, my fists clamping down hard on her shoulders as me and this stranger stand amongst the waves, teetering between ecstasy and oblivion.
I feel the life drain from me as we embrace, head lolling back under the night sky as I see only red for miles. Despite the pain, despite the sodding unknown of it all, I smile, because at last, deep down, I know that wherever it is i’m going I’m heading bloody home.
Did you enjoy Vex’s Narrative?
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BOOKS CURRENTLY AVAILABLE FROM KRISTY NICOLLE
THE TIDAL KISS TRILOGY- A MERMAID FANTASY ROMANCE
TIDAL KISS SHORTS AND NOVELLAS
THE ASHEN TOUCH TRILOGY- A DARK FANTASY ROMANCE