Sizzling Erotica
"Seeing Red," a Creative Vanilla Short Story by KD Grace
Everything about the man pulsated in shades of tangerine and vermillion. His whole body seemed about to blow the end off the infrared spectrum. Jenny was surprised the bus didn’t burst into flames around him when he sat down across from her. His head glowed like his brain was burning up, like whatever he was thinking was too hot to be contained in the human skull. Mental focus that generated such internal heat would have completely enthralled her if it hadn’t been overshadowed by the deep scarlet glow pulsating around his groin. For a second, she was almost convinced he actually had set the bus on fire. She blinked and tried not to stare. But even through the red shimmer, she could tell he didn’t have an erection, and yet the whole front of his trousers was a blaze of red. It wasn’t like looking through rose-colored glasses. It was more like looking through smudged stained glass. Very old stained glass.
One day Jenny woke and found she could actually see body heat, the body heat that showed up in the infrared spectrum in glorious swirls and splashes of color from burnt orange all the way to spilt-blood black. Watching it was like watching fireworks, subtle living fireworks. It was impossible not to be drawn to it. Jenny had gotten used to seeing everything as though it were viewed through night-vision goggles. Maybe she was a mutant. Maybe she was just weird, but it was a secret she learned to live with. She had even learned to interpret the variations in color and vibration.
By her interpretation, this man was a walking flame. This man should be ejaculating all over himself. Yet there he sat dozing in the seat, his head bobbing side to side with the motion of the bus. She fought the urge to move next to him, to let the red of him fondle and stroke her. Of course she wouldn’t actually feel anything more than his ambient body temperature. But it was what she would see that interested her. It was the erupting cinnabar dance that she knew would occur when she brushed against the heat from the furnace below his skin, the furnace that animated his heart, his head, and of course, his cock, nestled like a sleeping dragon low in his trousers. She knew what she would see would alter the rhythm of her own furnace until it spiked and fried circuits. Then it would expansively reroute them all until she could scarcely be contained within her own flesh. And that was just the act of touching.
The head and the cock, those were always the infrared hot spots. And though it fascinated Jenny—the flame halo that always surrounded the head of someone deep in thought—it did her no good. She couldn’t actually share what was inside a person’s head. They could only tell her; they could never let her experience it.
The cock, however, that was another matter. The heat flare around an aroused penis was a darker red with a bloody garnet effervescence that, to Jenny, was like a neon sign. Every man had the hot spot between his legs, there at the center of his identity. For her, sex was a visual smorgasbord, a light show that happened when heat penetrated heat and friction won the day. The pyrotechnic result was addictive.
For a fortnight, the crimson man rode the bus with her, getting on just after she did and getting off just before her stop. Every day, he was redder than the day before, the hues shimmering and coalescing around him like he was the center of a rubicund kaleidoscope. She stopped pretending not to stare, not that he ever noticed. He always dozed or meditated. But even if he had been looking right at her, she doubted it would have curtailed her hungry gaze.
She couldn’t sleep at night for thinking about the redness in him. She wandered the clubs and bars, all places she knew she would find plenty of red. If a man was red enough, if the color around his cock danced and glowed just right, then there was nothing he wouldn’t do to relieve the heat. And she would take him exactly as he needed to be taken. Any place would do. She didn’t care where – the storage room, the alley, a cab, even in a crowded booth while his mates looked on. No one else would be able to see how red she was, but she never left him in doubt. She’d kiss him with lots of tongue; she’d rub her tits against him, or her ass. She’d give him tantalizing views up her skirt. Sometimes she’d even guide his fumbling fingers up to her hot spot, reassuring him of what his cock could have. All the while she watched the area around his groin grow redder and redder while the halo of heat around his head grew paler and paler until he reached the point of no return.
Sometimes she’d take the bloke in her mouth so she could watch the flames dance. His hand would curl in her hair as he thrust in an out of the tight O of her lips like flint and steel making fire, but she never let him come in her mouth. She needed the heat someplace more primal, someplace far away from the center of thought.
It didn’t matter who he was, what he looked like, or if he thrust three times and shot his wad. What mattered was how red he was. What mattered was what happened when his heat met hers. The explosion, the eruption, the fireworks burned her eyes until she could see the after image burst and quiver and convulse behind closed lids, blinding her to anything else, filling her until she could feel it in her veins like the rivers of magma glowing beneath the surface of the earth.
And that had always been enough until that first day he got on the bus. Now she felt his presence constantly, like a homing beacon somewhere in the city, waiting for her to come to him. Now, each time he got off the bus, she felt like her skin would crawl off her body and chase after him. The ache had grown to an anguished screaming need to see the dance of body heat and fireworks. So when the bus stopped and he got off, just before the doors slammed shut, she made her decision. She followed him with no thought that he might not want her, that he might be appalled at her need. The very glow of him broadcast the intensity of his own desire and of his readiness to satisfy.
She followed him down the street for several blocks before he turned into an alley between an off-license and a coffee shop. Even in her peripheral vision she could see the pulsating waves of her own red, now grown to consume most of her body, and still it gnawed like hunger that had come home to live inside her and rampage.
Strength by Nathaniel Milljour
The rapping of her heels on the cobbles echoed off brick and plaster, telegraphing urgency. He waited for her, leaning against a metal door with a heavy lock. His trousers were open, and his cock glowed heavily in his hand. “What took you so long?” he said. “This is what you want.”
She half stumbled, half fell in front of him, ignoring the bruise of the cobbles against her knees. He let her take him with a little hiss of breath at the first press of her lips around his expanding girth. He ran his hand along the side of her face and her nape sending a bolt of red all the way down to the grabbing gape of her cunt.
“I know what you need,” he said, pulling her to her feet and turning her to the wall. “You go looking for it every night,” his breath scorched a path along her neck, as he fumbled beneath her skirt and yanked her panties down her hips, shoving and pushing until they pooled around her shoes. “And you still wake up cold the next morning.”
“I can’t help it,” she gasped, biting her lip at the feel of thick fingers raking her open and probing her readiness. “I need to see them -- the colors. I need to watch them move. Please, let me watch.” She tried to turn around, but he held her pinned against the wall.
“Not just yet. Close your eyes.”
She did as he said, struggling to control the desperation rising in her chest. He squatted behind her. She imagined the sizzle of color as his hot breath moved over her splayed vulva, darted into her cunt, nuzzled her anus. “Please,” she breathed. “I need to see. I have to see.”
“You’re not a very patient woman,” he replied. Then he pushed her folds open and his tongue snaked out with incredible speed, rolling and raking the hard nub of her clit, making her buck back against him, slicking his face with her heat. She cried out with the utter frustration of being able to see nothing but the fire-red glow reflected off the dirty brick.
Between shudders and quivers she undid her blouse, as he forced her legs wider with his elbows and plunged a hefty finger into her cunt while he continued to lick and suck and tug at her.
She shoved open her blouse and toppled her breasts out of her bra to admire the crimson glow staining her chest, pulsating deepest red against her heavy nipples, pulsating in time with her racing heart.
She was cupping and kneading and watching the heat when he pulled away. She nearly fell backward before his body pressed in close and she felt him maneuvering between her legs with his penis. “No!” she cried out and pushed him back. “I have to see. You don’t understand. I have to see when you put it in me. I need to watch it happen.”
He pulled her to him and kissed her hard, making her whole head buzz, and yet all the deep red of her concentration was focused completely on getting his cock where she needed it. She reached between them and grabbed him, standing on her toes, fumbling and shoving, practically climbing up his body, but it was to no avail. He was too tall, and the angle was wrong. “Help me, damn it! Help me.” She pounded on his chest in desperation until he relented.
Chuckling softly, he squatted just enough to get into position, while she held herself open, trembling so hard that the red around them shivered like fairy lights. He lifted her, hands under her bottom, and grunted and shifted until she felt the rough brick abrade her bare shoulder. Then her cunt yielded to the press of him, and he was in, all the way in, just exactly where she needed him to be.
Suddenly the world around them flashed nuclear beginnings at their joining point and exploded up over their bodies, searing her raw from the inside out each time he rammed her against the wall with great heaving groans. She dug her nails into his back and drove her heels into his kidneys in the tight lock of her embrace. She kept her eyes wide open and wild, pupils pinpointed helplessly and still the inferno flashed and pulsated and scorched.
“It only happens once,” he gasped, hammering in deep gouging thrusts. “For most people it never happens. So take all you can. There will be no more.”
The redness blinded her when they came together, and still she gazed into the flame. Life force, body heat, essence, going super nova down below her belly, down where the world heated up, then cooled into existence. Down where he flowed like a river of heat creating and destroying and hollowing her out until there was nothing but after images in the dark.
A long time later she woke up shivering in the door way. The sun shown pale and anemic off the dusty brick. There was no smell of smoke, no leaping flames, no exploded buildings, and he was nowhere to be found. She dressed and tidied herself as much as she could.
It was only as she reached between her legs to clean herself with some tissue she found in her bag that she realized the red was gone. She fumbled for her compact and examined her face in the mirror, a face that was suddenly, disturbingly insubstantial. She rubbed her eyes and looked again. She lifted her skirt and examined her mound; now only skin lay thinly over flesh.
And just like that, Jenny’s stained glass view of the world was no more. After a period of mourning her loss, she stopped looking for the red. She married a man from Leeds. She never saw his red, but they made two children together, without explosions and novas. One day she bought a pair of sunglasses with rose-colored lenses and wore them, imagining she could see just a glimmer of the red in her husband, in her children, in herself. Surely it must still be there just beneath the skin, just beneath her ability to see.
Originally published January 2011