Free Read: Violet Sex by Kristina Lloyd

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[intlink id=”476″ type=”post”]Find out more about Kristina here[/intlink].

I’ve always enjoyed violent sex but then John lost our letter ‘n’ and sex turned violet. It was filled with the colours of love: rose­-pink, mauve, lilac and grape. At its most intense, usually on Sunday evenings, our designated “special time”, it was the deep blue-purple of violets.

“John,” I said, as we got kissy in the kitchen. “I’m not so sure about this. Do you think we could put a little ‘n’ back into it?”

He moved to strike me but his hand turned lavender, his fingers stroking bruise-hued streaks across my cheek.

“Harder!” I hissed. He slammed me against the counter but his strength dimmed in an indigo puff, sparks of firework-purple shimmering between us and dropping to the floor.

I reached for his cock and he was stiff inside his jeans. “Fuck me,” I urged. “Fuck me like a filthy, filthy beast.”

“Sweetheart, I don’t think I can,” he replied. “I’m feeling kinda off-colour. I don’t want to hurt you. I’m sorry. It’s not you, it’s me.”

“I know,” I replied grimly.

We hunted high and low for our ‘n’: behind the sofa, under the bed, in the dog basket. We even searched the garden, paying particular attention to the lavender, the buddleia (made a note to cut that back), the romping clematis and baskets of lobelia, both of us alert to signs of unwarranted botanical aggression. It was to no avail. Our ‘n’ was lost.

As time slipped by, our love-making became increasingly gentle and purplish until one day we stopped altogether. In the emptiness, I grew randier than a sailor’s wife. I considered taking another lover and John said he wouldn’t mind but I could see from his eyes he didn’t mean it. I didn’t care for the idea either. At night in bed, I would trail my hand over his back, swoop over his hips and, as I kissed his shoulder, I would reach around to test how he was feeling. Nothing. His cock was palest mauve. I would watch him fresh out of the shower as he towelled his hair, beads of water coursing down his torso and glinting like rain in the black bush of his pubes. I’d forgotten how much I wanted that body until our misplaced ‘n’ had rendered it off-limits.

The worst times were when he was hard, his cock jutting up to his belly, his tip a fierce blood-violet and filmy with moisture.

“Let me,” I would plead. “Let me suck you, let me get on top, let me have it inside me.”

Oh God, I’d never wanted something so much in my life. My cunt was wet and yawning, his cock was massive and straining. But no: “Darling, I’d love to, you know I would, but let’s just have a cuddle, eh?”

One night, I got up to masturbate. It always seemed rude to do it with him there and anyway, my fear of waking him would have put me off my stroke. I went into the kitchen, looking for a suitable vegetable. I hadn’t bought a vibrator, fearing plastic would imply permanence, choosing instead to fuck myself with green and orange perishables. On the kitchen table, a small bowl of plums gleamed in the moonlight, a whitish bloom dusting their skins like a soft, quiet frost. I took one and ate it, and then another. Juice trickled down my chin and strands of flesh got stuck in my teeth. I was reaching for a greedy third when I saw it, nestled among the fruits, our much-loved letter ‘n’.

“John!”

But John was fast asleep. Hurrying carefully, I carried the ‘n’ in the palm of my hand and clambered onto the bed. I didn’t know how John had lost it so I didn’t know how to return it. Force feed him? Squash it in his ears? Up his butt? In the end, I wiped it on his cheek, though I suppose you could say I slapped him across the face. He woke with a jolt.

“What the…?” He glared at me, a hand pressed to his cheek, dark sleepy curls tumbling around his face. “You insane fucking bitch!”

“Bitch” made me moist.

John flung back the covers and lunged for me. I lurched back and he grabbed hold of my hair. “You hit me,” he exclaimed. I tried to resist, hair follicles stinging as he pulled my head to the mattress, pinning me there, angled down on all fours. I caught a glimpse of his cock, rearing up and ready for battle.

“Apologise!” he barked.

“No.”

He yanked my hair.

“Ouch, no.”

My cunt was hollow and wet. John swivelled behind me, grabbed my hips and, before I even realised we were about to end our purple period, his thick, strong cock was rushing into my hole. He packed me with such force my juices spilled out, no room inside.

“Stupid bitch.” John yanked back my arms, making me half wheelbarrow, half woman, and hammered away at me. “Teach you a lesson,” he gasped. “Teach you to wake me. Slut. Always wants fucking. Wakes me up so I’ll fuck her.”

I groaned into the bedclothes, biting at fabric, shoulder sockets pulling, wrists hurting where he clutched. But the pain was nothing compared to the pleasure of him fucking me, his head rubbing over my sweet spot, bumping deep and good.

“Whore. Filthy little whore.”

He reached for my clit. “Come on,” he said, fretting me. “Show me what a slut you are. Come for me, bitch.”

Before long I did, and he quickly followed suit, weeks of distance ending in a burst of crazy cries and a mutual flood of lust.

“Oh God.”

“Oh God.”

We flopped onto our backs, panting heavily before edging together for kisses and cuddles. My cunt was throbbing with the impact of his thrusts, and my arms and shoulders burned. We fell asleep, happy and united again. In the morning, my wrists were tender. In the evening, I checked them. Bruises had started to form where his fingers had gripped, moody purple patches, bluish-plum like a storm gathering at dusk, the color of violent beauty.