Mr. Desmond Tells His First Story

“Why?” I could barely get the word out. But having said it, the rest tumbled out on its own, “Why do this?”

He contemplated me, comfortable in the plastic courtyard chair as he was comfortable in his suit or his smile. “I met Mrs. Lovell today.” 

Mr. Desmond's First Story:

She was arriving home from grocery shopping. I met her at the door. “Miss Lovell, we have not met yet, but I am a great fan.” 

With an arm clutching the groceries, she turned the key and opened the door, “My husband isn’t home, you’ll need to come back after six if you wish to speak to him about his book,” Believing this ended the conversation, she reached for the handle to draw the door closed. 

“But I am not a fan of your husband, Mrs. Josephine.” 

“Then why are you here?” 

“For you.” 

 “Are you sure that is what you want?” My fingers tightened around her neck, cradling her throat in a grip that held her in place. 

“yes…yes…yes.” Each word a gasped whisper, a silent plea. I finally took mercy on her  and slid my grip along her neck to the back, burying fingers in hair. Tugging her head back, her gaze was forced upwards. I leaned over, lips barely finding her own, the feather kiss of a wish that moves from lips to chin, to neck like a trail of tears across naked skin. 

Leaning over her kneeling body, my teeth find the heat of her pulse and I am forced to stop, to taste this spot, teeth grazing across sensitive skin. Its more instinct then knowledge now, fingers tight against the back of her hair and teeth biting in, leaving marks that won’t soon fade, and a gasp of pain and pleasure that rings in my ears like burning need.


“What makes you think any of those women are real? Maybe I just made up their names that day.” Mr. Desmond asked.

I shook my head, “No, they must be real. Otherwise you were simply making those stories up so that I would…” I fell silent and looked down at my hands.

One thought on “Mr. Desmond Tells His First Story”

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.