The Different Shades of Red

by mobiusklein
http://www.livejournal.com/users/mobiusklein


He loved the green strapless dress the designer had custom made for Martha. It complimented her red hair, blue eyes and the pale creamy skin. He liked brushing the back of her neck with his knuckles. It made her smile as she was slightly ticklish there.

He never thought he would marry again after Lillian died. But two years ater her death, a new assistant named Martha Clark had been hired. After a whirlwind courtship, she was now Martha Luthor, his wife and stepmother to his sons, Lex and Julian. He had been disappointed that she couldn't bear children but decided it was for the best as she loved the two like her own and there would be no major dynastic struggle.

He watched as she skillfully schmoozed with members of their business and social circles. He imagined that everyone thought he had married her simply because she reminded him of Lilian, which was not true.

She did have things in common with Lillian. Both were strong, capable and intelligent women with a head for business and legal matters. Both kept him from indulging his worst tendencies. However, they were different in so many ways.

Lilian was lightning: dramatic, and overwhelming in her power with even the air crackling and growling because of her presence. Martha was hundreds of perfumed candles in a room, a slightly more subtle but nonethless moving presence.

Lillian was a forest fire, an elemental not to be ignored. Martha was like a warmth in the fireplace when one had been out in the snow and the sleet for hours.

Lillian was an eclipse, a dramatic event that everyone awaited with baited breath and turned the world upside down. Martha was the unexpected and welcome afternoon sun, creating a perfect day for a picnic after the weather man had said there would be nothing but rain.

After the party, they went home. After looking in on the children, they went to the bedroom. The dress fell to the floor as well as the slip. Martha took off Lionel's tie and tied it around his eyes.

"What are you doing, Martha? I want to see you."

"You touch me more when you can't see me," she whispered in his ear.

Even with the blindfold, he could still feel her erect nipples, the heft of her breasts, the soft hair on her mound, taste the sweat between her cleavage, smell her perfume and feel her eagerness of her pussy.

And when he came, he only had one word to say: "Martha."

The end


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