He asked me what I am. I said I didn't know. That was a lie. I know what I am, and what my beautiful umbral Goddess is. I just wish I didn't know.
She's leading me back to the club where I found her... or where she found me, I guess. Huge warehouse in the industrial sector called The Pipe that some bikers use for getting loaded and beating the shit out of each other. It's a dive, but it's a job. I'm a good bouncer.
So the other night I'm working the Friday, which can get rowdy. She's the eye candy in this shitty goth band called Yellowjacket. They suck. Even for a goth band, they're garbage-- except for her.
Her. My god. Perfection. Art in motion. The delicate, rhythmic dance of every gorgeous curve. Every subtle, sublime movement.
She catches me looking. Staring. Drinking her in like nectar. She doesn't stop singing, but she doesn't look away. I don't either.
Her voice. That perfectly smooth, smoky voice glues me to the floor. I can't move, but I don't want to, and her sexy little smirk says she knows it.
Part of me doesn't like being distracted like that. I've appreciated my share of ass, but something about how she swayed and cooed into the mic, almost whispering -- it's a perfect storm, the combination of her swaying and gyrating and the hypnotic lull of her voice, and I'm tossed around in it like a cow in a twister. Her eyes hold me in place until the song ends, and she walks toward me without breaking the gaze. It's almost like white noise, muting my senses to everything but her.
We're eye to eye. She's the sexiest thing I have ever seen. She smells of sweat, whiskey and cigar smoke. She leans in close to my ear, and whispers. Her soft breath nearly buckles my knees. "Follow me."
She backs away a few steps, then turns to walk away. I have to follow her. Norhing else matters but her. I am prepared to do anything for her. Anything.
Something in me knows this is a trap. That's the beauty of the Goddess, you see. She seduces and distracts and manipulates. Fucks with your head so you know when you're being used, but you don't care. You're so in love with her that you'll forgive her no matter what she does. Every molecule of your body is obsessed with her, but you know it's not real -- and yet it feels real. It's a mindfuck I can't handle anymore.
Anyway. I follow her out the back, and she leads me to this little trailer she's got hooked up to the back of the band's van. She doesn't say a word. She tears through my clothes and leaves gashes on my chest. I don't care. I want her, even if I have to bleed for it. I seize her in both arms and take her right there on the floor. She flails and shrieks, tearing the skin on my back to shreds, taking every shove of my hips, every fistful of hair I pull, every smack on that perfect ass.
It is endless, until it isn't. She lies with her head on my chest, stroking me while singing, softly. I fall asleep, watching her lick the wounds she's carved into my flesh, lapping at my blood like a kitten in a milk puddle. She looks at me and smirks again. I pass out.
When I come to, my wounds are healed, I'm in my own place. She's left a note next to a chinese food container. 'Eat. It'll cure your hangover.' It looks like rice in a sort of soup, but smells sweet. It's delicious. My body wants it so bad I can almost hear it crying out (like hundreds of tiny baby birds) to be fed.
It takes me a moment, but once my head puts it all together, my body starts to convulse in self-disgust.
She is some kind of queen bee, and I'm the egg sac. She put her little larvae in me somehow, and they want blood. Meat. Protein, so they can grow big and strong and eat me alive once they're done with me.
I gotta get back to her so when these little fuckers finally chew through my skin, I can take the deadly little bitch with me.
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- © Jackson Cambridge, 2015.
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