Mark & Miranda: The Reprise
*The following short story is a work of fiction. The characters, organisations, brands, and events portrayed are fictional. Any resemblance to reality is purely coincidental. This material does not reflect the author's opinions. It may depict highly unsuitable topics and language for sensitive demographics and should not be read by minors.
Anywhere, is where I am. At least after they found the lifeless body of S, sitting rigidly beside the stairs of the building where I used to work. A school is such a macabre place for having left her teenage, skinny body—barely covered with a coarse hemp blanket. But in the midst of my psychotic break, and after thrashing my head repeatedly against the washing machine I could barely drive.
My sister’s shady friends have helped me to cover my tracks. A guy with a ponytail used to date Daphne. She and I shared a joint occasionally. One day she was so high and horny she begged me to bugger her. When she spread her shapely ass for me, I thought about Miranda Beckett... Of the days Miranda helplessly posed on all fours. Daphne is always eager to grind me with her cunt whereas Miranda had tears sliding down her delicate chin every time I introduced myself inside her. It is still a shock what happened to her. She had such a bleak and short future. Yet she will haunt me for the rest of my life. She would be 24 as of today, which makes me feel extremely shitty.
I lucidly remember the first time I had a carnal encounter with her. We went to have dinner at an Italian restaurant. And inside the jazzy atmosphere, we had a quarrel over a pizza with seriously no more than five pepperonis. Fuck that restaurant. Miranda was truly a dream—except she was a veggie. She was cute, frail, defensive, and ready, and although she had fairly small breasts, I pictured myself drinking milk from them. The girl was so nervous she got drunk in less than an hour, with really cheap wine. We lumbered in the street after she convinced me not to make a scene when the check arrived.
Trodding over the puddles in the curb we shared laughs. It is a moment I have tattooed in the deepest of my psyche. It shocked me that she talked about suicide as if it were nothing, between giggles! To be fair, she was so ridiculously drunk she even laughed at a frozen homeless man. She sat on the concrete with a tired smile and confessed to me about the time she had her suicide all figured out. The girl was going to jump from a building near her house. But she reevaluated it when a shooting occurred in the school where she previously worked. While we roamed in the dark, moist alley, she pursued a small puppy. I noticed her panties through the wet bottom of her elegant crimson dress.
“Put it inside me,” Daphne said hungrily—zoning me back into reality.
I massaged my partly stiff cock. Uninspired, because Daphne’s butt may be as rounded, pale, and firm as Miranda’s. But her face will never match the melting eyes of a girl spreading her meaty thighs, willing to damage her genitals for your necessities. I occasionally suffer from night terrors, I dream about those who I unintentionally killed. But Daphne is there to wrap her arms around my broad shoulders. Although I am attracted to her thin waist and tanned legs, I do not dig how she expresses her sensations when we have sex. It was Miranda’s silence which I savoured. It was her humiliation. She was my blank canvas. Miranda knew she was destined for a forlorn life. She was depressed. I had the girl in the palm of my hand as if she had keenly waited for me to enter her life. Below the moonlight, she threw herself at me and hugged me tight. In retrospect, it was not romantic but truly sad. When we arrived at my house, her drunken body fell upon my narrow bed, and she slept profoundly—with her prominent behind facing up. That is when I stripped her naked. I divided the tail of her dress with scissors. I eased her panties off her smooth legs. And forced my throbbing cock inside her dry pussy. With each thrust, her bare rear slapped against my pelvis. The warm light of the living room intruded through the bedroom door. I noticed something strange when I glanced at her face—I thought I had killed her—she was blank-faced. Until she blinked. I roared and squeezed her butt cheeks as I strongly ejaculated inside her. When I came back from the bathroom she was asleep. She knew what had just taken place. I knew what I did to her. I lay beside her. She turned to me and gave me a kiss. I saw a tear descending on her face. She became my sex doll of real flesh. She did not want to be submitted, but could not fight her own impulse. Her own fear of isolation had nurtured a compulsion for pain. And it became addictive. A pang inside her womb made her miserable. But an impulse made her my slut. That is how my relationship with Miranda Beckett began.
This blog’s picture is the poster of my debut film “Internal Bleeding”.
