Playing With Your Food –
Read Part One HereDeliberately and without fear, you climb my web. I wait at its center and watch you come closer. I feel your movement echo along my strings, vibrating against my skin, calling me.
My eyes widen as I search your face. The heated flush of your cheeks. The determined set of your jaw. The way your tongue slicks across your lips. It all thrills me. I bite my lip, feeling my fangs threaten to pierce the skin.
You crawl to me, your limbs struggling with the webbing as you try to find your footing. But you reach and pull yourself near, before leaning in and kissing me. Your lips touch my chin, my cheeks, my nose, and over each eye. Your hands tangle in my hair, getting caught in its length. You sigh, breathing me in and out and in again, your cheek brushing against the curve of one fang.
My breath catches.
I still. My fangs are sharp, could pierce and tear your supple skin so easily, yet you don't even flinch at them. You touch them as if they couldn't kill you. As if they've never killed.
What is wrong with you?
I hadn't even noticed that I’m grabbing your wrist. Tight. I instantly let you go.
You rub your wrist and narrow your eyes at me. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head. I should be asking you that.
“You want to stop?”
I probably should. I'm not in the right headspace for this. Instead, I feel something uncontrollable bubble up inside me. “You're not scared of me.”
“What?” Your brow furrows.
“You aren't scared of me.” I close my eyes and shake my head, confused. Not of me. Not of this place. “Why aren't you scared?” I stare at you, scrutinize you. Don't you have any sense of self-preservation? Any sense at all.
“Why would I be?” You shrug as if it's a stupid question. But it's not. “Where is this coming from?”
A harsh laugh tears through my throat. Are you fucking kidding me? Where is this coming from? From the yeti likely still hyperventilating in the parking lot to the kid who'll need therapy all because he saw me walk down the street. From the fact that my life has been defined by the fear people feel when they see me. From the certain death they read in the curves and shape of my body. I understand that. Have lived with it for longer than you'll be alive. But I don't understand you.
And it makes me wonder if you really understand me.
I grab your wrist again, the swift motion stealing your breath. Grabbing more silk, I thrust your wrist against my web before lashing it in place. You aren't scared of me. But, Lord knows, you should be.
I lay a hand on your chest—another on your shoulder and another next to your head—feeling your heart race. But not with fear. Your skin feels hot and your face looks ready. And you lie there so trustingly. My jaw stiffens.
We’ve never had the talk. The one where I tell you about my past. The things I’ve done. The people I’ve killed. You told me that it doesn’t matter to you. That that was who I was, not who I am.
But it is. “You think you know me.”
“I do know you.”
I stare at you, defiant despite being tied to my web, and feel those old instincts rise inside. Quickly, so much more quickly than a human could, I secure your other wrist, your ankles, your knees and waist. With your legs parted and open to me, you cannot move. You don’t even try to.
I want to scream. Don’t you get it? If the magical community had never come out, if the government hadn’t enacted laws to stop me, I would still be doing what I’ve done for most of my life.
I climb over your vulnerable, exposed body, locking my feet around your ankles and knees. My hands press against your shoulders and grip your face. I lean over you, letting you stare into all six of my eyes and feel my breath puff hot on your cheeks between my fangs. “Do you have any idea what I could do to you right now?” What, at a time in my life, I would have, without question or hesitation. Without regret and with sincere pleasure.
“Why don’t you show me?” You say it like a dare. With heat in your eyes, you look at me, but you’re not seeing me. The real me. If I had met you back then, before the world changed, we wouldn’t be here.
You wouldn’t be here.
You’d be nothing more than a pile of broken bones left at the foot of some long-abandoned web. I probably wouldn’t even remember your name or face—I don’t remember any of them, any more than you remember what you had for dinner four weeks ago.
The feel and scent of your arousal is both intoxicating and infuriating. And I want more of it. I want it to overtake my senses. To fill my lungs, flood my mind, and make me think of nothing but having it. I want to be what I once was, living solely for the hunt, for the feed.
I reach down to play with your nipples, teasing the buds tight. I hear you moan as you writhe, disturbing the web. Your limbs twitch and your hips sway, tipping upward in a silent, subtle suggestion. I feel the web’s movement vibrate beneath us, the sensation reverberating through me. My own breath hitches. Sweat begins to bead on your temples, your neck, your belly. Leaning down, I lick the hollow of your throat, my fangs pressing into your collarbones. You groan and arch your back up, pressing your body against mine.
It’s been years since I’ve tasted human. Really tasted one. But I still remember. The salt of fear-soaked sweat. The metallic tang of hot, flowing blood. The feel of fresh flesh tearing from bone. It’s been so long, but I can’t forget it.
“I want to bite you.” Can feel the itch to open my jaws wide and plunge my fangs deep—in your neck, in your shoulder, in your belly, in your thighs—ache in my mouth. I want to feel you wet and warm against my tongue as your flesh gives to my touch and teeth. “Tell me not to.”
I see your eyes widen. You shake your head. “No.”
“I could.” I should. Reaching between your legs and stroking your sex, I feel the sensitive skin smooth and silken beneath my fingers. You’re so hot there, the blood-swelled skin almost scalding against my fingers and palm. “And there’s nothing you could do to stop me.” Your writhing turns into a strained struggle against your bonds. I watch you pull at the anchor points, your muscles flexing and your flesh flushing with effort. Sweat glistens all over your body now and sweet sounds drip from your lips. I want to lap at it all as the strings beneath us tug taut with your every tense toss and turn. I feel it pull and play within me, stirring me like a crescendoing song. “Tell me not to.”
I hear a whimper. Not yours.
I look down and see a small crowd gathered, called by your aroused heat. I see a gorgon, her eyes covered with cloth, shielded for all our safety, lift her chin, her nostrils flaring as she takes in your scent. Jericho, the vampire, licks his lips, his grip on his date tightening in eager hunger. They all want a taste. Of course they do. Look at you.
But you’re mine. Caught in my trap. Helpless beneath me. “Tell me.”
You just bite your lip and shake your head furiously, your hips thrusting wildly with my every touch.
Feeling the room’s longing fuel my own, I stroke you harder, making you cry out between clenched teeth. I know it—just as everyone else in the room does—the moment your teeth break flesh. Just a small bite, but the scent of your blood in the air is almost too much for me. My mouth waters at that scent and the accompanying sound that slips past your broken lips, a maddening mix of pleasure so consuming it’s almost pain. And, beneath it, I can hear the crowd’s breathing grow heavy. I hear it collectively squirm with the need to take, to possess, to consume. I want to cry out too, howl like the beast I am. “Tell me.”
I feel a hand touch my web. In an instant, I turn, ready to kill whoever dares to steal my prey.
My breath catches as I see her stand there, calm but commanding, her manicured hand sending a current of power along the thread. It hits me like a cold slap, reminding me where I am. Who I am.
I look down around her and see the crowd is gone. It’s just you, her, me, and what I could have done. I shut my eyes shamefully and swallow hard. What I almost did.
“I won’t tell you to stop.” At your words, I look down. You stare back, your gaze sure, so much more certain than you should be. “I won’t because I shouldn’t have to.” You lay back, your body relaxed and waiting. “I wouldn’t be here, be with you, if I had to.”
I want to believe that you’re different from the rest of the faceless prey I’ve known. And you are. But I only know that because I’m different now. Before, I would never have let you get so close. Would never have let you know me or let me know you.
But I have and I do. And I would miss you, if you were gone. The sound of your voice and the rumble of your laughter. The smell of you in the morning and the way you make the monster in me feel safe. The only person—the only being, including myself—who looks at me like they have nothing to fear. I don’t know how you do that. But I pray you never stop.
“I want to touch you.” I look down at you and see you staring at me, your gaze playful and hot. A marveled laugh tumbles low from my throat. You smile daringly. “Untie my hands.” Hitching your hips, you tug your bound wrists. “Let me touch you.”
Trusting you and your trust in me, I carefully lean down and hook one fang between my webbing and your wrists, slicing the strings, freeing your hands. You rub your wrists for a second before reaching for me. You stroke up and down my limbs, teasing the sensitive hairs there, making me shiver. You know what I like. Know my body in a way no one else has. You coax pleasure from my body—from me—that I’ve never known before.
“Come here.” Your voice is low but insistent with an eager timbre that rumbles through me. “I want to taste you.”
Desire rumbles hungry through me. Settling my abdomen over your face, I feel your hands pull my body close. Your fingers and tongue tease my opening, entering me. I cry out as you plunge deep, my head thrown back and my mouth wide as the sound echoes in my head.
In response, I reach between your legs, touching your opening, teasing the tight hole. I stroke the length of your sex, feeling it press into me. I feel your tongue touch me, taste me, and I want to do the same to you. But I can’t. Not without risking your delicate skin.
I tilt my head as I stare at the hand touching your sex. Skin to skin. Heat to heat. I lift my hand to my mouth and imagine your taste still clinging to me there. I can smell your scent as it surrounds me. Your sweat is salty, earthy, and infused with the unique musk of your arousal on my tongue. I suck my fingers deep, feeling my teeth scratch the tough skin. You taste so good. But I want more.
Coating my fingers with my saliva, I reach between your legs again. With two hands holding your shaking thighs still and another still stroking your sex, I press my slicked hand at your entrance and slide in slowly. You moan against my own sex, the sound a physical echo that vibrates within me, urging me deeper. I feel your body give to me, inch by inch, allowing me inside. You’re so hot against my fingers, your body’s embrace a welcome burn.
As I begin to stroke you from within, I feel your fingers inside me move to my rhythm, matching me in intensity and speed. Our cries meld together in sweet music around us as our bodies thrust against each other in a timeless beat.
It goes against nature. We are of two different worlds. But somehow, in this space, we fit.
For a moment, my mind wonders at the miracle of it before pleasure overtakes me and I can think of nothing but the overwhelming presence of you. As my body tenses and shakes above you, I feel yours do the same beneath me. My hands grip you, as my orgasm pulls me under. The strong grasp of your hands on my thighs anchor me in a way I hope to too.
Breathlessly, my weight gives and my body crashes onto yours. I worry that I’m—with all my extra parts and mass—too heavy for you. But your arms wrap around me and hold me close, letting your shudders flow through me.
Exhausted and sated, I blink against your thigh—all six eyes—the soft but strong limb pillowing my head. Feeling your chest rise and fall in slow, tired breaths beneath me, I look out into the Preyer Service, listen to its monstrous sounds of pleasure, and smile.
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