Scarlet

From Scarlet by Emmanuelle de Maupassant.

The following has been excerpted as part of an ongoing Refinery29 series of erotic stories for women, by women.

I twist up the color. It’s the sort of red that leads you into trouble: the red of vamps and femme fatales. I can’t help but smile at that. It may take more than a slash of scarlet to lead me astray!

I move the red to my lips and it goes on beautifully, thick and creamy. Darker than I thought it would be, yet suiting my complexion. I give myself a wink.

You’re not looking too bad. Bloody good lipstick, I think. Why not undo a button? So I do. Then I fluff my hair.

It takes only those few seconds for the color to cast its spell. A strange confidence suffuses me, running through the lattice of my veins, pulsing to my groin. My breasts swell under the constriction of my bra, nipples stiffening. A she-wolf, long sleeping in her winter cave, has woken, bringing with her a hunger for flesh.

I’d been feeling tired, wanting nothing more than hot water on my body and the solace of alcohol, but I want something else now.

I want a man.

I return to the party, where the lights have dimmed. Any man will do. I don’t feel the need to be choosy. As luck would have it, the groom’s father is leaning against the wall, just inside the doorway, a glass of brandy in his hand, which I take from him and swig down. Before he can speak, I’ve turned my body and moved close, my fingers against his crotch. I don’t say anything. I just cup my hand against his balls, and squeeze, until the handful grows.

"Where?" he asks.

I don’t answer. I lead him out and down the corridor, back into the bathroom, into a cubicle, locking the door.

He goes to kiss me, his tongue intrusive, breath thick with booze and the garlic of Chicken Kiev. I let him, while my hands are on his belt, opening his fly, eager to grasp him.

His buttocks are surprisingly hard for a man of his age. His cock is hard too, hard in my hand: hard and warm and smooth.

I rub and twist, rougher than is polite, but he doesn’t ask me to stop. He’s pushed the skirt of my dress up and is reaching inside my underwear, dipping in an experimental finger.

I’m ready for a good fucking.

Back against the wall, I hold the fabric of my knickers aside and rest my foot on the toilet seat. He’s nudging in, and there’s nothing more to do but push myself forward, to take that eager cock where it wants to go, and where I want it.

We aren’t quiet, and I don’t give a damn. The cubicle shakes with each stab. I thrust to meet him, one hand clutching his arse cheek, holding him firm, urging him on.

"Harder," I hiss, my fingers pushing into his skin.

He obliges, but only manages three more lunges before the inevitable: a juddering final stroke. I feel his knees go and that sudden, familiar shrinking.

He pulls out, leaving his cream to drip down my inner thigh. He starts to zip up but I’m far from finished. I need more.

"Get on your knees," I say.

"Piss off. I’m not kneeling on a toilet floor with some scrubber I’ve just met. If you want yourself licked out you’d best look elsewhere."

He spits the words, and then he’s gone.

My clit is thumping with its own heartbeat, demanding more. I wriggle out of my underwear and stuff it in my bag.

Strangely, my mascara has smudged under one eye, but the lipstick is as vivid as ever. My lips are pulsing too, in synchronization with my sex. They don’t need it, but I take out the lipstick, just for good luck, and apply another coat.