Pentagram
His eyes lock onto hers. She glares back up at him, defiant, unblinking. Holds his gaze as she strains against her bondage. She flexes her shoulders. The loops of rope that bind her wrists behind her back hold firm. Too tight. She exhales a long breath.
One of his arms snakes out behind him to snatch up a cushion from the couch. He drops it in front of her on the worn hardwood floor.
“Kneel on that.”
His voice rumbles deeper than any human voice. Like river rocks shifting under a spring flood, a summer thunderstorm just over a ridge. That voice – not human at all. Neither are his long ebony horns, his multi-jointed claws, nor that shifting cloud of black heat-shimmer that trails along as he walks by on obsidian hooves. Not human. Inhuman. If she could just distract him long enough to…
SLAP!
The sting makes her wince, clench her jaw. She falls to her knees on the cushion.
“I don’t like to ask twice,” he whispers low as he tosses aside the horsewhip. The red welt across her breast burns like fire. He runs his thumb over her cheek to brush away a tear. Dips his finger into her mouth.
“Such defiance requires…consequences,” he growls as he circles his finger over her lips, “first, I’m going to fuck that pretty little mouth.” He stands to his full height, shifts his hips so that his cock bobs over her upturned face. The shaft is glistening, smoothly veined, with a slight upward curve.
“Then I’m going to make you wish…”
DING!
He grumbles, whirls at the sound from the kitchen. Wisps of black mist trace pentagrams in the air behind him as he strides out of the room. She can see him hunched over the counter, one finger outstretched towards a device of metal and glass. He’s distracted. This is her chance. She strains against the ropes that bind her ankles and wrists. If she can just slip her thumb under the knot.
He whirls to face her, one obsidian talon clutching…a French press.
“Babe, do you want oat milk in yours?” he rumbles through the archway.
“Oh,” she sighs, “we’re all out. I can take it black.”
His jagged jack-o-lantern mouth curves into a smile as his forked tail snakes up over his shoulder. He wiggles a carton of organic oat milk back and forth with his prehensile tail. Tiny beads of condensation fly from the carton to the kitchen tiles.
“Guess who picked up a fresh quart on the way home?”
She smiles, settles comfortably into her cushion.
“Now that’s a good boy.”
Horror Sleaze Trash 