One Night

There were clothes strewn all around the room. Tossed negligently hither and thither were pants, skirt, shirt and blouse, underwear and bra. There was a high heeled shoe on the dresser were it had landed amongst the jewellery, flicking necklaces and earrings all over the top of the dresser.

One boot had landed outside of the room in the hall way beyond, the haste to pull it off and discard it clearly displayed. A photo of a couple was knocked over on the nightstand and another with the glass cracked lay on the floor. The quilt of the bed was pulled right back and the sheet underneath had been pulled from the mattress and was now bunched up beneath their prone forms.

Slowly, as if in great pain, he rose, propped himself on his elbows and looked down at her. Her eyes were closed and her blonde hair lay in a tangled heap around her shoulders. She was lovely, so pale and perfect. Skin like alabaster, unmarked by any blemish. Her pink lips were slightly parted.

He rubbed his hand across her naked belly and up to her small breasts. He lightly cupped each one and leaned down to kiss her dark nipples in turn. He gently removed himself from the bed so as not to disturb her. She didn't even murmur not even when he tripped over one of her shoes and banged his knee against the dresser. He looked back at her; she was so perfect, angelic. It was a shame that she wasn't his first. She would have been the perfect woman to have been his first. She had been so willing, taking him to her bed with neither thought nor qualm. They had struggled at first, it had been a rush to get their clothes off and she needed help with hers. She had nearly clawed him in her haste and some of the scratches were livid and red on his face but that just seemed to heighten the anticipation of the event that they were taking part in. A great moment in his life and for her as well.

Once they were naked and lying side by side on the bed she had cried for a while as he caressed her perfect body, lovingly kissed her skin. She was silent and still as he adored her with his fingers, eyes and lips.

It ended, of course, in ecstasy. She had her back arched, her cries muffled by the sheets. He had enjoyed every moment of her, especially the last. Those few seconds of her where her life ebbed from her body as his fingers tightened around her throat and then slowly letting them relax as she ceased her throes and quietened down.  He was clean though, he had not entered her, and he would never do something as cruel as rape. This was more than mere sexual satisfaction. This was an art form and she was his medium. The bed the blank canvas, the sheets, the clothes all part of the final masterpiece where she was the focal point. He studied her; the pose was perfect, her hair, and her lips. He gently shifted her legs and then placed them back where they were. She was perfect as she was. Yet something was missing, something wasn't quite right. She was superb, white skin, white sheets.

There was no colour, nothing to draw the eye.

Steven went on cat like feet to the kitchen, he searched through her drawers until he found what he was after. He then returned to the bedroom with knife in hand.