Warning: Violence, explicit language, and mature sexual content.
The Only Time
This is the only time I really feel alive.
There's a devil on my shoulder, whispering in my ear, convincing me to delve further, dig deeper, until I find the light at the end of the your tight, wet tunnel. Don't give up now, it says. I've gone too far to give up now. There's no going back, no pardon for this treason, so I should indulge before it's pulled away.
'Hold on. Hold on a bit longer,' I tell myself, doing my best to ignore how perfect you feel from the inside. 'You're almost there.'
With fingers pressed into your skin, nails puncturing your smooth thighs, I shove and moan, twist and shout, too caught up in myself to hear you beg. You're asking for redemption, for release, for someone to purify your rotten soul, even when knowing it's impossible.
Sounds like we have something in common, baby.
"Don't! Stop!" you scream, forcing me to wrap my fingers around your fucking throat.
Poor choice of words, because all I hear is: Don't stop.
You know I hate it when you make me hurt you this early in.
Or do I want to fuck you harder?
Don't you get it? Don't you understand? Stay still, honey, enjoy it. Revel in it. Roll in it like a dog when he stumbles across a fresh carcass. It's the best discovery of the century for him, so why can't it be for you? Relish the sensation. Let yourself float away. Escape from reality one wave at a time. I can give you this, give you everything. I have the power to devour, to instill you with hope, to take you higher than Heaven itself. I'll help you climb the slope you can't scale alone.
But for me to do that, you have to close your mouth and let me fucking work.
If you'd shut up you'd learn how your screams flow through my head. They slither across my brain, slide their scales over my skull, and trail their tongues down my licentious spine. They provide reels of forbidden pleasure, and you'd bite your fucking tongue as quick as you'd shut your whore legs if you saw them. You'd close me off. Lock me out. Abandon me to myself: my broken, bruised, forgotten, sore, too-fucked-up-to-care-anymore self.
But all you do is make me struggle not to cum too soon. The fighting, the domination—it's too much. There's a build-up between my legs, a traffic jam of hot, seething metal. Waiting for the green light. Waiting to go. I close my eyes, afraid they'll pop from their sockets. I bite my lip until I taste copper, and push the pressure back. It's a battle I've come to adore, a plateau of ultimate release, a cliff I gaze down and wonder if I'll survive the inevitable fall.
One of these days, I'm hitting rock bottom.
And I'm taking you with me.
Your muscles tighten, rubbing on my rock-hard cock. You're a damp, supportive blanket, and I revel in our friction. You try your damnedest to push me out, pull away, but the tugging makes you tighter. You're a Chinese Finger-trap, and I'm the hand of a curious child too incited to put you down. The pleas seeping from your lips are on par with the convulsions of your cunt. I shove a groan down my throat before it spills and drowns you. Paints you scarlet. But don't worry, honey, red is such a lovely color.
You'll be wearing it soon.
Of course, it isn't until you see the first gleam of my knife that you stop moving. You lie still. You're terrified, no, horrified as the metal skitters across your stomach, runs along your abdomen, and tastes every inch of your cream-white skin. It's the only material in the world able to appreciate how you really taste. The cold steel bites you, branding you my whore. My release. My escape.
So, Death is the only man who can make you enjoy? Death is the only motherfucker you fear? The only one you'll heed? Take the effort to understand? You damn me, push me away, and call me a pervert. You don't stop fighting, not for a heartbeat, while my fingers worship your fleshy temple. But the very fucking moment you flirt with the thought of your demise, you're all too willing to listen. Too willing to be subdued.
It's too fucking late now.
You don't deserve redemption.
At first you think all I want is to cut the clothes from your luscious body. Saw them apart, pry them open, cup your breasts in my filthy hands. Running my tongue down the ridge of your stomach, I taste sweet, sweet honey in every inch. I plow into your hive, the scent of sex thick in my nostrils. Your silence penetrates me to my core, baby.
I'm wishing you'll start screaming again; at least then I won't have to listen to the buzzing in my ears.
But I don't worry. I don't fret, because when the tip of my weapon, the one not yet plunged inside your body, pricks your skin, you let out a choking gasp. Your wide eyes pull me in, suck me down, and push me, spiraling, through the twisted corridors of your mind.
Your violation contorts into pain. Your heat melts into blood. I lean forward, run my tongue along the gash I trace down your gut, tasting, licking, exploring, and drinking. I can't express how wonderful you taste. How precious you are. How thankful I am to have you all to my fucking self.
You're my heavenly banquet, the only buffet able to satisfy my hunger.
My hands and elbows are wet, covered in your cherry slaughter. But that doesn't stop me—it makes me harder. I wiggle my fingers into the wound. I reach deep inside you, wondering if I can reach your heart. Strangle your desire. Feel your pulse on my palm.
You moan and twitch, the agony draining you of your vibrant fight. Draining you, but filling me. You give me your life. Your soul. I feel feathers on my fingers, dancing across my palm, dripping from my nails. I lick it off, suck, suck, suck it all outuntil my stomach stops rumbling.
I twist the blade, my hand slippery on the hilt. I close my eyes and focus. You don't have much time left. And neither do I.
I'm standing on a familiar cliff, wind running through my hair, ruffling locks sticky with your blood. Holding out my arms, I step forward and surrender myself to nothingness. I freefall, spiraling down. Down, down, down where there's no end in sight. The sky's a new shade of blue, the sunlight disappears, and even the rocky bottom won't spare me a passing glance. Light turns to dark, in becomes out, and I lose myself in a maze of monochrome.
But that's fine. That's all right, because my cock still feels you, and the last scream to shatter our silence is enough to make me cum.
Wave after wave bashes against my skull. My body convulses, muscles tense. You feel the sting of fingernails biting your hips—but you're used to it, aren't you? A bright light caresses me and fills my mind with euphoria, but it all ends too soon. The green light turns red, and I stop. I crash. I come down from a high no drugs can match. With my exhaustion leaking from bloody lips, I slump over you covered in sweat.
Finished, but never done.
Your hollow eyes watch me, blind and glazed. They judge me, tell me I deserve to burn in Hell, knowing my hands will soon find themselves wrapped around another innocent throat. Wrapped around another escape that'll slip between my fingers. Another star too far out of my reach. There's no escaping my hunger. No fighting my compulsion. No denying the devil crouched on my shoulder, his tongue fondling my ear.
Defeated. Empty. Vacant. I took everything you had and gave nothing in return.
But, my God, I feel so fucking alive.
And in the end, isn't escaping reality what we all wish we could do?
Author's Note: This was the winner of the Review Game's Writing Contest Challenge: September. Title inspired by the song "The Only Time" by Nine Inch Nails.