Posts Tagged ‘ the rape of bride ’

The Rape of Bride

The Rape of Bride

By Stacy Lash © 2009

When you encounter someone new, it’s always a bit disconcerting when the first thing you make eye contact with is their genitalia.  Whenever this happens, I always remember them by some unusual physical characteristic and that’s what sticks.  From first glance on, whenever they are referenced, my brain will immediately conjure up the image of … well … the image of what made them ‘unique’. It’s pretty much all about the superlatives; largest, smallest, etc.  All you need to do is match the adjective with the body part, the result is what ends up ingrained in my mind.

With the Bride, though, it wasn’t so much her parts and pieces as the hirsute nature of her nethers.  Some females don’t believe in razors, however I suspect she just gave in to her condition after a while.  Her most private furs weren’t black or coarse, making them much more intriguing.  Instead, they were soft, glossy and the most unusual honey color I’ve ever seen covering a vulva.  Most pubes are more vulgar than couture but hers were truly stylish.  Packed so densely no hint of the skin underneath could be seen, a full bodied wave twisted them, root to tip, into a gentle spiral.  A lot of women would pay big bucks to for those luscious curls to adorn their heads.

I found the Bride laying spread eagle, draped over the corner of her bed, and wearing just a veil.  The sheer tulle hid nothing; I could still make out the amber hue of her right eye, which was staring toward the closet.  Naked from the neck down, arms and legs drawn up, exposing her sex, she was all but poised for consummation.  A lot to take in all at once, but being first introduced to the Bride’s fabulous honey colored corn-silk pubes the rest of her dilemma fell to the wayside.  Nice to meet you, Ma’am.  You are now synonymous with your bush.  File this case under You’re a Sick Fuck.

The crime scene was like any other, minus the blood, though from the crimson sheets she sprawled upon, you’d almost believe she lay in a pool of it.  There was no sign of a struggle, but something was missing and it would match her veil nicely.  No bra, no girdle, no panties, no garter, no stockings, no shoes.  No ring either.  I had to wonder if she was playing dress up for me instead of lying there dead, simmering in someone else’s juices.

I never like touching them.  Yes, they’re victims but the brutal act taints their flesh forever.  Immortality resulting from being pickled in your murderer’s semen doesn’t seem like a pleasant way to spend eternity.   I’m always relieved to learn of their cremation.  But until the body is out of my sight, I must restrain my gag reflex and deal with their cold, briney, stickyiness.  Shiver.

Three steps take me from the doorway of the bedroom to within an arms length of her body.

Reaching into my pocket, I snap a pair of latex gloves over both hands.  Body fluids are usually hard to spot and though I’m required to wear gloves when coming into contact with biological materials, I actually wear them because I’m fluid phobic.  Saliva and semen are just two of the liquid nasties I’d rather not have seeping through my pores.  It’s not so much the fluid itself, but because it’s a conduit.  I liken them to a hypodermic needle.  The sole reason they exist are to transport pathogens from point A to me.  Everyone has something, everyone but me that is, and I want to keep it that way.  So, even though we’ve become intimate quite quickly, bride, let’s not mingle our flora, okay?

He was a specialist with a fetish, but no necrophiliac; making the scene anything but a classic rape-murder.  She had been alive while he violated her honey succulent cunt.  His oral fixation evident in the many bite marks decorating her body like tattoos; tiny puncture wounds indicated where he’d satisfied his psycho-carnal desires by licking and chewing her, drilling holes in her bare flesh with his canines.

With my gloved finger, I flip back the veil, exposing her face.  Dried spittle shimmered in the dim light.  She had a row of stitches on the outside of her eye he had opened up.  The ends were ragged, soaked with his saliva.  No blood escaped the wound as though he’d lapped it clean after she’d expired.  He must like his bride tenderized, I thought.  Rigor mortis hadn’t set in yet and giving her a quick poke I confirmed this suspicion, watching her limbs slide freely over her joints, flexible to the extreme.

Bending forward, my face mere inches from her body, I close my eyes and inhale.  I discern a variety of scents; his acrid fluids, and her musky decay.  They open to a single, inch-long strand of black hair. His hair.  The follicle wanted to be found.  Not that he seemed worried about leaving traces of himself all over her.  He might as well have written his name across her in seminal fluids.  At least the hair was one more item to compare.  DNA would pin him, but that wouldn’t give me anything visual to go on.

Before I had a chance to pull myself back from her corpse, I heard a noise from the other side of the room.  I leaned slightly in that direction, holding my breath and trying to be as silent as possible.  Just below the lip of the mattress, tucked into a dark corner, a black head bobbed in and out of the shadows.  I heard the wet smacking sound of lips and tongue.  He was completely oblivious to my perusal, engrossed instead in the act of fondling his detumescent weapon.

A rush of blood flooded the veins in my neck and the sensation of fear pressed outward against my skull.  All my muscles tensed and the adrenaline being injected into my blood stream made them feel swift and reactive.

I lunged forward, hoping to catch him still unawares.  A split second before reaching his side of the bed, he looked up at me, eyes wide with shock and possibly even a hint of guilt.  I grabbed at air as he slipped around my legs and ran out of the room.  He was traveling so fast by the time he reached the bedroom door that he lost traction and skidded, slamming into the hollow wood panel with a sharp thud.  The door slowed him down enough for me to catch up and, colliding, then ricocheting apart, he scampered up the hall and I sprinted after.  Though his pace was quicker, my legs were longer and I was able to close the distance inside the twenty foot stretch leading to the living room.  On the threshold I flung myself, superman style and when I landed, was able to grab the bastard by his legs.  Caught.

He was behind bars before bed time and I hoped he got used to being there.  Nothing says ‘You’re screwed’ better than a cell you can barely do a 360 in.  I only wish he hadn’t made catching him so easy for me.  Sad thing is, he is sure to be out by morning.  It’s just the way it always happens.  They never seem to do enough time for their crimes.

The night had been long and I was tired.  There doesn’t seem to be as many hours in the night preceding a work day as there are on a day off and I could hear the clock ticking down like it was on crack.  Stripping, I change into the least sexy attire I can find; red, plaid flannel that covers me from neck to wrist to toe.  The holy trinity of, “I have a headache.”

All of the excitement from earlier plays itself back in fast forward while I stand paused at the end of my bed.  I see the bride, one last time, sprawled out on sullied crimson sheets and shake my head, sighing.

“Dan, can you bring me a Shop’n Save bag from the kitchen please?” I hollered up the hall.

A few seconds later he arrives, throwing a crumpled plastic bag at me.  I catch it mid-air and hastily open it up.

Using my index finger and thumb like a pair of tweezers, I grasp the amber furred Teddy Bear by the corner of her ivory, lace veil and drop her into the bag, careful not to let any of her sticky fur touch my skin.

“Why’d you do that?” Dan asked.

“Because Duke violated her earlier tonight,” I replied and tossed the bag into the small trash can beside my bed.

“Rotten dog.”

The End