In "Black Red Blood White," the gripping conclusion to the riveting saga that began with "Tacit Resonances," author Viktor A. King delves deeper into the enigmatic world of Anna, the tortured soul turned spectral avenger, and Henry, the malevolent m...
The beautiful Ursula had betrayed him, dying on his behalf.
He watched his penis erect at the thought of the violence he would perpetrate on his next girlfriend.
They were like brides to him, young black brides.
He wanted her as a brunette. Also in the flesh, with big, pendulous breasts. Those little girls who clutched their abundant flesh in little triangles of cloth. He would have nibbled at the flesh that overflowed into soft young rolls.
He touched his member.
He needed an orgasm, with one of them, welcoming him into the fleshy, hairy vagina.
He stroked himself rhythmically. He should have done it himself.
A young mouth to welcome him, to lick him, to gently give him the intoxication of virile power.
He ejaculated on the mosaic of small square tiles in shades of blue to light blue, his semen dripped like magma onto the smooth ceramic, she looked at him absently, enjoying the peace of the orgasm achieved and possessed. Then she grasped the hand shower, directing it at the viscous liquid and wiped it away with the trickle of water, letting it flow together with the rivulets of cool water.
Sweet freedom.
He turned off the water. He grabbed the white, lavender-scented terrycloth bathrobe and scrubbed his pubis well, removing the residual water from the red hair.
He wiped the soft cloth over his chest, kept his red chest hair, cut short, his muscles were toned but not swollen, dry but not overdeveloped, the result of many rides and tennis matches with his club mates. His hands were large with short-cut nails, with no skin and with the white bezels of healthy, perfectly cut rounded to follow the natural crescent of the fingertip. His mother praised those never, claiming convincedly that they were a gift from God to play music. Instead, he had decided that it was God's gift to him to play music for his personal enjoyment.
Why be born bad? Was it a choice, an inclination, a madness? Well disguised evidently, he had obtained a degree in surgery and a specialisation in genetics, without any of his professors in London imagining what the acquisition of those skills concealed. He vigorously rubbed his very short hair and short beard over his jaw and chin.
He chose a white linen shirt and trousers, also linen but cream. A suede belt and matching loafers.
He was ready for the hunt.
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He could not imagine that that small satisfaction obtained fleetingly in the bathtub replaced a stolen embrace.
He rolled up the sleeves of the linen shirt carelessly over his forearms. He pulled the belt buckle into the marked hole and tightened it, then pulled the belt flap through the trouser buckle. He was going to use the belt as a whip, yes, he felt like it. To whip the young, soft flesh of a fleshy little girl, to see them redden where the skin vilified the flesh and then expand to a purple access where the blood flowed.
