I licked my lips at the sight of her soft form. Submerged within the foliage, I could watch her every move. I analysed those silken weaves of auburn hair, pondered those thick thighs and imagined snapping those thin, fragile fingers. She came to the clifftop every morning, all on her lonesome. Sitting right upon the precipice, she was afraid of nothing, of no one. Dangling her supple legs off the edge, indifferent to the endless expanse of ocean which would afford her no refuge, were she to go tumbling down. Sometimes she would sing, her velvet tones affording me the greatest pleasure. Oftentimes she would paint, or recite poetry. But frequently she would solely sit there, watching over the gentle ripples beneath.
My favourite parts were when it was windswept. In the summer months she wore her silken, milky dresses. I felt such excitement, watching from afar, as her garments wove upwards like a flower blooming forth, revealing the sweet pollen underneath. For a young maiden she held little modesty. Yet unbeknownst to her I was always there, wondering whether I should go compliment her delicate songs or comfort her muffled sobs. Would she want me? Or would I be shunned by the only soul that gave me any consolation in this barbarous world?
Then the third Thursday of the third month came and she brought a man with her. A striking man. He looked at her with eyes of lust, to which she was blinded with her all-consuming purity. The sun rose, the man kissed her, and she blossomed for him.
I could not bear it. She was mine. My lily became tainted, her white silken dress smeared crimson with her virgin blood. She was all mine and nobody else’s, and I would never give her up to that vile creature. I will have to assert myself, yes. Show her that she belongs to me and me alone. The next morning, I shall find her and claim her as my own.
And I did. Whilst she sang, a song sweeter than she had ever before sung, I caressed her soft arm, her so very soft arm. She felt like snowdrops and honey-milk, she smelt of lavender and wisteria. When she turned around, her eyes widened, a frail frown forming on her face. That warm complexion paled as I wrapped my arms around her, pushing myself on top of her heavenly body.
‘P-please! N-no please don’t do this s-sir! Please, leave me be!’
Her strangled cries pleaded out for me, she wanted me more than she had wanted him. She merely used that snivelling runt to learn. She wanted to learn to please me. I couldn’t control it, she felt so good. Her pleas and shrieks reverberated through me, rocking me about even harder. Those soft tears rolled from her eyes onto my palms and I licked them up viciously, consuming her body and soul.
Exhausted, I rolled over. I had done it. Our communion was complete. After some moments to compose myself, I turned to her, grinning in my sublime ecstasy. Yet she did not appear happy. The dried tears down her cheeks were smeared with blood. Her breaths came staggered and weak. Wordlessly, she crawled towards the edge of our cliff. She silently stood up, and submitted herself to the endless expanse below.
The cliff, much like her, became mine and mine alone. Weeks and months passed, yet I still remained. The patches where she sat and painted and sang were still wet with her form, smeared with her blood. I could still hear her sing-song melodies in place of the sweet-tempered waves below. At least, at first I could.
Time passed and the sky grew dusky. The waves raged and plunged in a tumult of emotions. The place was dark and foreboding, it reflected my anger at the one girl who loved me then left me. She should have stayed with me.
Then I was alone no longer. The third Thursday of the third month passed again, and I found I was no longer the solitary figure on our clifftop. Whilst I sat upon the precipice, looking down, waiting to see if she would rise up to be with me again, a pair of pearlescent feet perched themselves next to mine. The same auburn hair cascaded round her face, and she was here with me.
‘Hello Sir, it’s nice to meet ya’.’
The sound was squeaky, not sweet like before, but still so very similar. Perhaps her vocal chords were crushed when she fell down so far, pulverised upon the craggy rocks beneath.
‘Sir? Hello? My names Deloria. What’s yours?’
I turned to look at her, soon discovering the nature of this spirit beside me. Those topaz eyes and that snowdrop skin was her, it was all her. It was my beautiful baby, in a smaller, more youthful frame. She had a crimson ribbon in her hair, and as I gazed at that face I yearned to smear her dress such a colour, as I had with her once before.
‘You’re lookin’ at me funny. If you don’t mind Sir, I’d just like to sit here for a while.’
And she started to hum. She wasn’t impressive like before, but she laughed and she smiled, before she began to weep silently beside me.
‘I’m sorry mister’, she began between breaths, ‘this is the first time I’ve been ‘ere. I’ve been wantin’ to visit my sister for so long, but my mummy wouldn’t let me, she said this place is dangerous. I had to sneak out when she wasn’t lookin’.’
She wiped her nose on her arm, in a decidedly less sophisticated manner than she would have before.
‘But now I’m here with her at last, I just feel sad. Isn’t that strange?’
I felt a tap on my shoulder, a small hand on my arm.
‘Hey mister! It’s me again. I brought ya’ some oatcake.’
I fumbled, I stirred. Adrift with thoughts of her, my member was flooding with juices. I had gotten lost in myself. I covered my shame, but it throbbed harder and harder.
She was evidently unaware of the effect she had. She only paused for a second.
‘Sorry mister, didn’t mean to scare ya’. Come, have some oatcake. Mummy always says to Uncle Aran that it’s the best oatcake in all of Carter Cross, and she’s right.’
She bent over to hand me the food, her dress pirouetting upwards in the air. I was pulsating and ready to burst just at the sight of that loose cotton between her legs. Fuck it, I needed it now.
‘Mister? I was handin’ you the oatcake, not my leg! Whatever are ya’ doin’?’
She was even softer than I remembered, the heat radiating from her genitals was succulent. My fingers probed closer and closer, my member throbbing harder and harder as her squeals made it leak down my legs.
Then a third voice, her voice arose behind me. I turned in the biting wind and smelt an undeniable scent of lavender. I stood up, reaching towards the beautiful, decaying figure now before me. It gave me one final bruised kiss, before thrusting me into the depths below.
Lavender was influenced by Angela Carter’s collection of short stories The Bloody Chamber.
I’ve also posted some character sketches for Lavender, you can check them out here!
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Copyright © 2016 Rebecca Sherratt