Maroon Monsoon
Chris stepped out of the shower, savoring the sensual sensation of sultry water droplets careening down the length of his slender physique before toweling off. Steam covered the full-length mirror behind the bathroom door in a murky haze. He wiped it clean with a damp towel for a clear view of his impressive erection. Unable to resist an overwhelming urge, Chris wrapped his hand around his throbbing member and caressed himself, rapidly releasing the warm, white wish within.
He dumped his last girlfriend, Amanda, when she deemed him an inadequate lover after being loyal for a year. Inadequate. Just thinking about her glaring insult made him furious! If he was so inadequate, then why was he always turned-on whenever she was around? Chris didn’t understand Amanda⎯she defied explanation. She was his puzzle; no matter how hard he tried; he couldn’t make her pieces fit.
He recalled their final night together all too well. They were making love. He pumped away on top of her on his messy bed and experienced an epic orgasm. Suddenly, she wriggled out from underneath him disgusted. “You came too soon! I wasn’t even close to climax. It’s over Chris, I’ve met a real man who can go all night.”
Too shocked by her confession or how much stamina he had⎯which admittedly wasn’t a lot⎯Chris sat up, unrolled the spent condom, and tossed it in the trash while he watched her dress⎯a dizzying display of unfettered desire⎯as she collected gathered her things for the last time.
“Amanda, wait. Let’s figure out how to make this work. I need you,” He begged, his voice cracking under spontaneous emotional duress. Chris grabbed her arm with his firmest grip and yanked her back down on the bed, eager to prove his prowess.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me the first time. You’ve been replaced by a sleeker model,” she barked, and shrugged him off, like a wet noodle. “Goodbye, Chris.” Amanda stood and made a beeline for the door. Chris lunged for a chef’s knife from the cutlery drawer next to the kitchen sink before she reached the doorknob. He wrapped a sinewy arm around her swanlike neck and plunged the razor-sharp, 8-inch blade between her ample breasts before she could protest.
Chris watched her stumble around the cramped apartment as she floundered, hysterical making strange gurgling sounds⎯like someone drowning⎯as she staggered toward the door in a vain escape attempt foiled by the free-flowing blood pooling at her feet. She slipped in short order, landed flat on her back, and smacked her head on the slick hardwood floor.
Thwacked!
* * *
When his dick fell limp, he remembered wondering what was too soon. He didn’t think it was sixty minutes. Sixty seconds, sure, but not an hour, that was more than adequate as far as he was concerned. And who the hell was this stud she found who can ‘go all night?’ Chris couldn’t help but wonder—he’d never find out—that strenuous scuffle with the chef’s knife spared him the ultimate humiliation.
Chris experimented with new ways to achieve orgasm in an earnest attempt to rid him of Amanda entirely. His latest attempt involved an ordinary hair dryer, which he switched on the warm setting, opting to skip the highest temperature⎯for fear it would cause permanent damage⎯and placed its nozzle strategically in front of his throbbing member with one hand while he stroked his shaft with the other. But the constant rush of warm air coupled with whirring sound it made wasn’t gratifying enough to bring him to climax, and his dick itched from the unforgiving onslaught of dry heat.
Besides, using the hair dryer only reminded him of how she used to blow dry her hair when she got out of the shower right before they made love. He recalled standing in the doorway, while he watched Amanda run her fingers through long, brown curls with eager eyes. Chris always thought her hair looked sexier wet—she always insisted on drying it—just to spite him. One of her many talents; she knew how to get under his skin and stay there, a thorn in his side.
Still naked and undaunted, he padded into the combination living room/bedroom/kitchenette to scour the confines of his cramped studio for ordinary household appliances everyone owned but weren’t creative enough to use in new and exciting ways.
Chris felt particularly bold tonight, willing to try anything that would purge him. The first item that caught his eye was the blender on the cluttered kitchenette counter, not too many possibilities there, unless he made a shake and smeared it on his dick. But that wouldn’t do much good since Amanda was unable to lick it clean. Anyway, he just took a shower, so he didn’t want to use anything that involved getting wet and sticky down there before he climaxed, which made things messy enough.
Sometimes, he would cook dinner when she spent the night. Afterwards, for dessert, she would whip up a chocolate shake in the blender, he would add his own special cream, and they would take turns playfully smearing it on each other and licking it off ever so slowly, savoring the sticky sweetness.
This was getting him nowhere. She still managed to mock him, even after her impromptu, flawed final exit. Perhaps fantasizing about her once more, for old time’s sake, would finally rid him of the emotional burden that plagued him. Anyway, that was the plan.
Desperate for release, he grabbed the worn wooden handle of the chef’s knife and yanked it from Amanda’s chest—a magnificent maroon monsoon spurted from the jagged 8-inch gash—tinging the air with the coppery stench of old pennies—oblivious to the worn hardwood floor still slippery with her congealed blood. Chris ambled into the bathroom and found a bottle of her clear nail polish shoved in a corner of the medicine cabinet and decided it should be preserved⎯he studied his reflection on the small portion of the blade that remained pristine, untarnished. All the while he kept remembering how thrilling it was to gaze into Amanda’s soft, brown eyes and see pure desire burn brightly, beckoning him. When Chris blinked, he was startled by the sight of his own cold, blue eyes, tinged with red, utterly devoid of the carnal urges he once knew.
He was in a rut; there was no denying it. He needed something to numb the pain before he did something drastic.
Chris shook his head, walked over to the bed, clutching knife in hand, pulled back the covers, and climbed in. The cool sheets made him shiver and he couldn’t help but wish she was beside him.
Without hesitating, he brought the sharp point down on the tip of his middle finger and pressed down hard enough to draw fresh blood. Then he licked the blade clean slowly being careful not to cut his tongue⎯until only Amanda’s blood remained⎯ and set it down on the empty pillow beside him where she used to rest her head. The knife rested there now, glistening shocking red on the pristine white pillowcase, reminiscent of her: dangerous and sharp.
Chris closed his eyes and traced the outline of his lips with a bloody finger while he worked his free hand slowly down to his enormous erection. He opened his mouth wide enough to slip his finger inside, licking it slowly the way Amanda used to work his dick, and sucking all the blood clean from the cut, bringing him to orgasm gradually, the way she liked it. Chris savored the coppery taste of blood, warm and pungent, almost salty, the way Amanda told him his cum tasted before swallowing.
She was on his mind when he came.
Chris cleaned himself up with some Kleenex, feeling a profound sense of accomplishment since none of the tissue fragments stuck to his cock. Relieved, he flopped back into bed and closed his eyes. Amanda’s likeness appeared as an unsettling jumble of vivid images that beguiled him: Her pert breasts looking exceptionally sensuous with the wooden handle of a chef’s knife jutting out between them; her cries for release, which he mistook for unbridled passion; her blood spewed forth, a magnificent splash of crimson.
