by The Spike
As I suck his cock, the wind begins to howl. Rain beats down and
something flaps once against the window glass. He tastes like ashes and
like stone. And a faint essence of something unearthly sweet. I guess
even the flesh of fallen angels is divine.
And Lord God Jesus he is hot. Not hot like heated flesh, but hot
poker brand on my tongue. Hot as iron in a fire. He sets my mouth
aflame. I open my lips, let flames escape to lick at his hard, flat
belly, his bony hips. Hipbones sharp as blades under taut skin; red as
brick ovens, red as welling blood...
He gasps, his hips buck under my hands, losing it to me now. Losing
control, his human form. Horns sprouting, each like a child's tooth
breaking through the gum. I can feel talons spring from his long thin
fingers, scoring my scalp as he cards them through my hair. I hear a
sound like the weighty flap and rustle of canvas sails -- of wings
unfurled in too small a space. And:
"Zeke...." he hisses. "Look at me. Look at what you're doing."
He has won, he thinks. He has me body and soul complete -- seduced,
debased, brought to my knees before him by my own weakness. By my
need. The victory is important to him, I know and so I look, raise my
eyes up to meet his triumphant gaze, my lips still stretched around the
solid, searing flesh that spears me ... and I smile.
See, I always knew that this was him. I never fooled myself.
think I wanted any less than this complete unveiling? I never did. And
seeing triumph in *my* eyes now, knowing who it is that mastered whom,
he can hold back no more: he comes and coming lets go the iron shackles
on his cruel and blackened tongue.
And calls the name of God.
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