His

Witch

She casts her spell and brings him to a place in the middle of nowhere, a place where he belongs to her. She works her magic on him. Invisible hands caress his body, dip into his skin, tear passed his muscles and avoid his bones until his heart in her grasp. She squeezes a little, then she pulls until the organ has left his body and is throbbing in her hands.

Little witch.

He falls down dead and she feels little remorse for tearing out his heart and taking it as her own. She watches the darkness seep out of the heart the way shadows scatter in the face of the sun. Then she takes the heart into herself and she feels the burdens sinking in with it. Terrible sins course through her veins and she realizes all is not the way it should be. Something is wrong. It should not hurt this much. For a moment she thinks she may be in over her head.

His little witch.

He is there inside her dreams that night. He stands off in the background with a twisted little smile on his lips and watches her dream, as though he were the dreamer – the one in control. She wakes with a fright not a moment after laying eyes on him and clutches her heart, pounding and aggravated. There's a whisper in her ear, one she doesn't quite understand but her heart beats faster and she knows. She knows he's there with her, in her mind and in her heart, invading her soul.

Songbird.

She has always found music to be something magical. The melodies sweep her away to far away lands that exist only inside her. The lyrics speak to her, telling her the things no lover or enemy ever could. But tonight there is something frightening about the song about the child trapped in darkness. The words mean more than they should and they make her heart hurt like it never has before. And she stops singing along with rich voice coming through her speakers, because she knows he's listening.

Little songbird

He enjoys her voice when she sings to the music that plays all around her, but he prefers to make her sing in other ways. He tastes her from the inside out, and the essence of her lust tastes sweeter than the wetness collecting between her thighs. It is his turn to wrap his fingers around that tender heart and pull. But not too hard, just enough to make her writhe more. When she comes down from her high, she feels the odd sensation of hands that don't exist wandering all over her, touching her insides and setting her nerves aflame.

His little songbird

She has sung songs of love for him and songs of lust. He likes her songs and so he keeps her. He keeps her locked away in a cage of words and feelings stronger than any metal with her wings broken. Because he is her King and he owns the conniving little witch that stole his heart in every sense of the phrase. She belongs to him – but he is not the one that makes her sing. She sings of her own free will, and she will sing only as long as her King holds her captive.

-End