Her skin is beautiful.
A perfect milky white, the complete contrast to my previous girlfriend, her skin had been a wonderful dark colour.
I don’t care about the colour of their skin, it’s always been about the condition of that skin. Always soft, no unsightly blemishes such as acne or scars.
They could only be perfect.
I like distinguishing features, the odd mole, perhaps cute freckles as they add personality.
My girlfriend has the cutest little line of moles down the right side of her stomach.
Her sparkling eyes follow my hand down her body as I trace it down her perfect skin, tears rolling down her cheeks whilst I smile in love and admiration.
“You will be the best one of them all,” I whisper.
Those eyes flashed with an all too familiar look that I am still yet to understand, all of my previous girlfriends had the same look as the blade first sunk into their skin. An angelic scream echoes around the room and makes my heart skip a few beats, I love that sound.
I sink the silver blade in at an angle in jagged movements to separate the skin from anything else, blood poured over my hand that was resting on her side. With each movement she’d let out a cry and a whimper and a smile just broke my face in half.
Once an edge was established I began to peel the skin back to reveal the red underneath and continue to dissect a large portion until it had finally fallen away completely.
One beautiful piece of milk coloured skin, stained red.
I set the knife by her hip and get up, stepping away from the table she was strapped to. Pulling the side of my shirt up, I place the piece of skin across my side, holding it there until I reach the mirror across the room.
The contrast of the skin sample against my own was beautiful, the white contrasted against my own scarred, tanned skin wonderfully.
The skin makes an almost delightfully sickening noise as it slaps against the counter of the wooden table beside the mirror, right next to a needle and thread.
I move the mirror around so that I could sit at the table and have a perfect view of myself.
After removing my shirt I hold the skin against my own once again, admiring the sight with distraction before snapping out of it and grabbing onto an already prepared needle.
The first stitch always hurts the most, having the end of the needle push through the flesh stung every time, but after that it becomes an almost addictive feeling. The need to feel the piece of thread moving between your skin and tightening the new addition was euphoric.
Watching as the loose and flapping piece of slowly dying flesh attaches to yours with each new stitch was addictive.
It only takes about five minutes until it’s over and the feeling of bliss subsides, my body tingles all over as I take a wet wipe from a packet on top of the table and begin wiping the excess blood from my newly grafted skin.
With my new, milky skin all cleaned up I make my way back to the table. Leaning over this beautiful woman I smile so lovingly that my cheeks hurt, she stares back at me as her chest heaves up and down with large pants.
“Well I think that went very well, shall we continue?”