Bloody Mary

I don't know fully what to categorize this in. I just hope that you travel along the road I walk and enjoy my warped sense of erotica. It is after all just a story. Is it good or not, I don't know. Please enjoy. I accept all e-mails.

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Have you ever heard the story of Bloody Mary? The old folklore of the woman killed in such a horrid way that she now haunts those who call her name. Those that taunt her over and over again. I am sure once she was young and innocent. Maybe even naive. Now she is none of those. Her spirit still wanders searching for her killers. Who I am sure have long died of old age, if not foul play. I remember her from my childhood imaginary dreams. How we all would stare into the mirror standing in a darkened bathroom, calling her name for her to appear. She never did appear, not to me anyway.

I was introduced to her, calling her name as a little boy. I stood in front of a mirror calling her name over and over and over again. Ten times in all. It was at an after school center that I went to. I was younger then my fourth grade son is now. It was a dare for us at that age. All those that entered the dark bathroom before me ran out screaming, claiming they saw her. I never did see her. Never, that is, until the last time I called her. Called her when I was too young to know what a mistake I was making.

She didn't appear in the mirror as all claimed. No, not at all. She appeared behind me. As I was about to run out of the bathroom screaming, as I have done before, claiming to have seen her, I stopped. I should have screamed, but I couldn't. She looked at me and smiled. A smile like a someone would give when approving of how their lover looked. I wanted to scream but the simple touch of her bloody finger silenced all. She lightly placed her finger upon my lips, as you would your own self to shush another.

I looked upon her visage. I blinked thinking I was seeing things. How I feared that I wasn't. Her appearance, a bloody mess. A dress once clean, beautiful, and immaculate was now tattered and incomplete. Her hair in disarray and disheveled, which should have made her unattractive, but didn't. Blood covered her. Long tresses no longer blonde. Their were patches where skin could be seen, even spots that showed a nice healthy flesh tone, but there was no mistake about it. She was killed in an untimely yet bloody cruel way.

She was a mess, yet rather beautiful. What stood out most was her neck. Her throat in particular. It was missing, taking away her ability to speak. I was still able to hear her in my mind. I have heard stories on how bad she looked, never did I believe them. How could anyone be described in such a horrible despicable way? The flash of her emerald green eyes drew my attention. They were incandescent, and sparkled with such fire and brilliance. Her body was tight. Her breasts filled her dress quite well, pushing against the fabric, as if they were trying to escape.

She spoke to me, as wing would whisper to a tree. She told me that I was to be hers as soon as I got a little bit older. She said that I was chosen. I didn't know for what. I remembered what she said for a long time, but as I grew older it slowly disappeared from my mind. So did she. Looking back I realized she watched me grow older. There were times when I would pass a mirror, I would have to look again. Did I see something? Of course I would look back and there would be nothing.

Occasionally when I showered, the lights would shut off. Caused of course by some power shortage. At those times it felt like someone was on the other side of the shower curtain, patiently waiting. It was a feeling that I grew so accustomed to it became normal. No longer did I get the cold chills as if someone were sliding their nails slowly down my back. I even forgot that I had forgotten her. That faded too.

When I next saw her, I was older, a lot older. She wasn't even a faded memory, she was forgotten. Then, as if everything was to happen at any special time, it was now. A word was spoken. My ears heard it not, but I did. It is a word that I promised never to say, never to utter, not even to a single solitary soul. I never did. Nor will I even for this story. I will however tell you what it meant for me when I heard this word. It meant she was ready, and in that instant everything I knew about Bloody Mary came rushing back into my head. I visually saw her, saw us, as if it were rehearsed, back when I was just a child. I heard her again. This time she said "You will remember."

I was steps away from my bathroom when I had the urge to close my eyes. Doing so changed my surroundings. I could still see, see in a way I never thought possible. I was watching myself stand there, yet I felt myself stand there. My body's eyes were closed, but my soul looked on. I watched as her being stepped closer in the wide open space I was now in. She looked exactly as she had those some twenty years past. She was still beautiful, even though she was still wearing the same attire. She Stopped only when she was less than an arms length away. What happened next was like a car accident. It happened so quickly and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

We stood, my eyes closed, hers open. My arms were lead by hers, and she wrapped them around her waist. I pulled her close to me with such force our bodies made a noise, much like slabs of meat being slammed against a table. Her lips pressed against mine. I could taste the blood that lingered on her tongue. I grew excited. My heart quickened, my blood spreading through my veins causing me to perspire. I felt like a man possessed by nothing less then pure lust. The kind you get that can not be controlled.

A bed appeared behind her suddenly and without reason. It didn't matter though, I wanted her. I wanted her like I wanted no other. I had to drop my seed inside her. To thrust my manhood into her womb. Why should I try to figure out why a bed appeared when she was offering what I wanted? No, what I craved. Quite simply I needed to fill her like a whore.

My fingers rushed through her hair, getting tangled in the bloody mess. She had the body of a girl just becoming a woman. Her dress held tight against her bosom. I knew her breasts would stand against gravity if she would remove her clothing. She must have died as a teenager. Everything was still peaking to perfection. How old her body was I will never know. It's not something that was on my mind. Only the constant throbbing of my hard dick that wanted to be inside her was what occupied my jumbled thoughts. I never understood why she never changed her appearance. I thought it was a trick that the dead could do, and after all, she was dead.

I stepped forward pushing her back. We floated to the bed. We should have fallen but our bodies just seemed to crash like feathers. My tongue jabbed then fenced and even retreated when her onslaught grew rough. It only made me more excited. Moans escaped her lips as I pressed my hands upon her bosom. Her hands were upon my back. I could feel the wet texture of her life essence. Her blood never dried. It would drip from her body, but I didn't care. I wanted her, I wanted to be inside her. To fuck her like she never was before. In fact, I believe she died a virgin. That could possibly have been the very reason she died. She didn't want that taken from her. A gift for her true love.

The years past and she became more lustful, and eager, like a bitch in heat. There was no foreplay, just hard core sex. I lowered my pants in one quick motion. There was no hesitance as they dropped to my ankles. My one arm wrapped around her and my other pulled her dress up above her waist. She did not resist. In fact hearing her in my head, she begged. I could wait no longer. I had to have her, to take her, to make her mine. Or me hers. After all it was she who first appeared to me. As I delved into her. Her nails, like talons, dug into my back. With each thrust of my hips my length and girth expanded. I could feel the tip of my cock against her inner flesh. The sensation was wet, unlike any that I have ever known. I knew that I bled her, I bled her fresh.

It was an eerie shriek as she convulsed and thrashed in orgasm. My back was torn by her nails. We came together in one fluid motion. Her hips pressed against mine, our thrust matched our ferocity. Our minds connected and I was able to feel her climax and her mine. It crescendo till we peaked. My back bloody, as bloody as her body. I lied there in her embrace. Eyes still closed, but still watching. Blood and sperm mixing with sweat. It was intense. Even more intense then with anyone I have ever been with.

My arms were wrapped around her in a lovers embrace. We were ear to ear, her breath so sweet on my neck. I heard her voice this time, not in my head, but with my own ears. I thrust back and opened my eyes in shock and surprise. I wanted to see her, but when I opened my eyes, she wasn't there. A sadness filled my heart. I was not in a bed with my concubine, I was standing in my hallway much like I was when I closed my eyes. I realized I must have been standing there the whole time. How sweet and real that illusion had been.

Although I was sure this had been some sort of dream, my back was in pain. It felt like a searing heat was spreading. I stretched from elbow to shoulder trying to reach. When I pulled my hand away it was blotched with blood. I stretched again, more blood. How bad was it? I wandered into the bathroom feeling the fluid drip to my pants, pulling off my shirt as I went. I gazed into my reflection, my back was torn up. I still wear the scars to this day.

What caught my eye though was not my reflection. It was what appeared to be a smudge. On closer examination it was the imprints of a kiss. Was it lipstick? Before I even finished that thought, I answered myself "No." I placed my thumb next to them. The lines showed clearly that bloody lips were pressed hard against it. I traced my thumb over it pretending that they were Mary's lips. It didn't smudge. She left me a memory, one that would never disappear. One that with only a glance at my mirror would remind me of the best sex I never had. Well, that and the occasional itch my back gives me.

When I moved out, the print was still there. I tried cleaning it away, but the harder I scrubbed the more my scars hurt. It was as if she was telling me "Don't forget me." The complex I lived in tried cleaning it as well, trust me I know. My scars were hurting then too. I heard they even changed that mirror many, many times, with no avail. The lips always reappeared. I wouldn't be surprised that they are still there. After all it is difficult to clean the other side of the looking glass. She was after all a myth, a legend, no she was real. Just over time she became lost and simply became a folklore.