Fiction: A Love-Trumping Lust By Wendy Ashlee Coleman

The lust; it flows through my veins, married and mixed with the red liquid that keeps it alive. I want to believe that I can control it, that this primal sin that infects my dreams and thoughts can be defeated with discipline and self control but it can’t. Because with every heartbeat, with every breath it saturates me to the point where I can taste it in my mouth and it conquers my mind effortlessly.

The sight of you, it sickens me more and more every time I partake in your presence. Your beautiful body, your symmetrical face and your sweet scent, as sweet as a piece of devil-grown, forbidden fruit, intoxicates me and quickly stiffens my body’s softness while making me shake uncontrollably.

Your voice and it’s femininity just fuels the flame of my desire for you and even though it kindly says, “no”, to me, it boils the lust that poisons my blood, manipulates my thinking and says you want me.

I know you want to be friends and, I know your heart belongs to someone else. A part of me -the good part- wants to be happy for you, it wants you to live the life that you want, it loves you enough to let you go but you don’t know the real me. You don’t understand that the goodness residing in me is only a small part and that the thimble-size amount that I have is dominated by something that is possessing me more and more each day, something I couldn’t possibly control because I don’t want to control it anymore. The majority that conquers me is a side you’ve never seen. The passiveness and friendliness you trust is nothing more than a sham now, a show that, to this day, I wonder why I keep presenting.

I don’t know why I keep seeing you and talking to you and smelling you. I don’t know why I torture myself by constantly having to touch you so friendly when touching you friendly aches me. But I’m forced to, you see, I’m forced to trust the beast inside me now. He talks to me. He tells me things I don’t want to believe, things he’s tried for years to sell me on and only now has he become convincing. He tells me that you would taste even better than you smell, something so hard to comprehend that even the very demon inside me can’t describe it. He tells me that your flesh would taste even better if you were scared, that your goose bumps would tickle my tongue and that your frightful shakes would make your muscles weaker and your legs easier to spread.

He tells me you don’t really know what you want, that the man you love is a false profit, someone whose masculinity and seed is of poor quality because his soul reeks of a putrid and almost estrogenic quality, not of a real man but of a pseudo-man, an unaggressive, un-craving wimp who would like to kiss you but not taste you; who would want to make love to you, not fuck you; a man who would put a condom on without asking, instead of coming deep inside you without asking. A man who would need you, but not lust for you, someone who would love you, but not worship you.

The wicked one tells me it’s okay if you put up a fight because your lips will taste better with a little blood on them and that the clothes you wear will tear like thin paper off your skinny body. He tells me that deep down your trembling, natural, female frailty will secretly crave the lustful violence that I could provide.

I believe him now. I want to force you, I want to fuck you and I want to wipe that look you so frequently give me off your face; the look of friendship, of neutrality, safety and trust. I want you to uncover the monster that painfully claws inside me wanting to get out, wanting to get you. I want to see you tremble and cry and scream. I want you to look at my face with shock knowing that the friend you once saw in me is no longer there. I want to taste your salty fear and acquaint you with the real me, the demon that gives me the power to make you moan in pain, fear and pleasure all at once; the black soul whose lust is a virus, one that’ll turn you from a victim, to a begging whore with just a flick of my tongue and transform you into a slutty vixen who’s willing to let me take you over and over again because you’ll finally see that light without darkness is artificial and hollow, and the sinful pleasures of the blackness always bring about your greatest wetness, because it’s a place with no rules, no taboos, a place where your fantasies attack you, a place absent of god and judgment.

The man whom you feel is the one for you- he is gone. I cut his throat and stood over him. I watched his moral blood spray from his wound and onto my pant leg and I looked down on his death and smiled. I told him I would take care of you and he cried with his last breath. Tomorrow you’ll get the news and you’ll drop to your knees in pain but I’ll be there to catch you. You’ll wrap your skinny arms around me at the funeral and you’ll cry and scream and ask me how someone could do such a thing? I’ll hear you but won’t answer, because your scent will once again boil my blood and your body heat will tempt me with the hot meal that I crave so badly.

You’ll be emotionally wounded and weak for weeks after, needing a friend and wanting me beside you. I’ll be there like planned and I’ll be good until it happens. It’ll be you that does it. You’ll make the first dangerous move and you won’t even know it. In a desperate time of need you’ll reach out and kiss me on the lips. For the first time in years you’ll display a singular act of affection that shows more than friendship. You’ll release a wave of lust that you didn’t know even existed upon yourself. You’ll tell me to stop but I won’t, and you’ll hate me for doing this to you, and you’ll hate yourself even more for liking it. You’ll taste my seed and want more because the lust that I have for you saturates my body and spices my fluids, making your ego bloom like a rose in spring. And when you look down and see that your pussy is my heroine, you’ll gasp and, at that moment, fall in love with me. You’ll realize that the lust that I have for you has trumped any love you’ve ever experienced.

The next morning, you’ll wake this stranger up from your bed, and toss beside me the large hunting knife you found, the one still caked with the blood of your former love. You’ll ask this stranger, with tears rolling down your face “Why’d you do it?” And I’ll smile and say “For you, baby, . . . I did it for you.”