The Scar

Sarah asked me if I wanted to try something different.

The Christian Death posters and black makeup made me nervous.

I asked her what she had in mind, and she told me it was a surprise.

"You sure about that?" I asked. The last time she surprised me with a lick between the toes. By reflex I kicked and broke her jaw.

She giggled and said I wouldn't get the drop on her this time.

Redheads are either "Hot" or "Not", and she was. Soft, warm, pale flesh like a handful of bread dough, with a flaming streak of red and blond fire coming off in waves from her forehead to her ass.

I watched the lamplight ripple across her skin like the waves in a glass of scotch as she got out of bed and crossed the floor to sit at her faux-wrought-iron vanity.

"It's a Wicca thing," she said. "Sex magick." She pulled a hobby knife out of the drawer and threw it in the glass of vodka on the bedside table.

She pushed me down against the pillows and told me to be still as she kissed my chest and neck. Her fingernails scraped my sides and back and her breasts brushed heavy against my stomach.

"I like it so far," I said.

She laughed and sat up, grinding her hips into mine. She smiled, and the light flashed off her teeth, the ice cubes floating in vodka in her left hand, and the blade of the craft knife in her right.

"Make a wish," she said. "Something serious. Something you can see." She took an ice cube and some vodka into her mouth and fastened on to my nipple, swirling the ice and liqour with her tongue.

Distracted by the feeling, I did as commanded and pictured myself at a New York book signing with my novel. Tweed jacket with elbow patches. A line of fans outside The Today Show with signs supporting my appearance. Playing Bass with Stephen King.

She swallowed the vodka and spit the ice into her hand, teasing my nipple with it.

"Got it yet?" she asked.

I told her yes, and she told me to hold on to it.

The razor tip of the craft knife flashed twice, and a thin ribbon of blood welled up beneath my left nipple. She bit her tongue and watched it for a second before latching on to it like a hungry infant.

My senses staggered like a punch-drunk heavyweight. Her hot tongue caressed my tender nib as her teeth pinched and nibbled. Her saliva stung the incisions.

She lowered her self on to me and started pumping. The blood slowed and she sat up, thrusting her hips forward and panting, the knife still clutched in her fist. She slashed herself across the left nipple and pressed it into my mouth.

"Remember your wish," she moaned. Her hot salty blood pumped across my tongue and down my throat in rhythym with the spasms of her hips. A flood slowed to a stream, became a trickle, and she pulled herself up again.

Tiny crimson pearls seeping from our wounds smeared across her breasts and face, her passion transcendent.

"Remember it," she said. "Remember it. Are you ready?"

I felt the surge building in my soul.

"I'm ready."

"Me too. Make a wish, Carl."

"I wish-" I said. She shushed me with a finger.

"Now, baby, now."

My mind blanked, dreams of literary stardom lost in the flow of lust from my crazy flame-haired lover. My only wish was to be with her forever.

I exploded in visions of groveling at her platform high-heels as the hooks dug into my flesh. I lost myself in fantasies of dying for her smile. I gave of myself to her, completely.

She milked me, drawing spasms and cries.

"Do you remember the wish?"

Yes, I said. I remember everything.

"Well... wasn't that a nice surprise?" she asked.