The Deal (Closed for WhisperedDesires)

[Apollo Wilde]

“You’ve such a way with words.” Light mockery there; no harm, no foul. She wasn’t insulted, and if she were to be honest, she felt way more assured of herself now that she wasn’t, well, wet and naked and in close spaces with him. Besides, he did have something of a pleasant voice, and listening to him speak was almost as pleasurable as the answers he provided.



And so things went - dawn, day, night, week to weekend. She grew used to his presence all too easily - well, this is why people had pets. Not that he eagerly ran to greet her once she came home from work. He was a shadow in her home, something she had to remind herself was there. The first few days after she’d returned to work, she’d been startled more than once by him, caught up in the maelstrom that was the work week and so used to her own habits - ah, that would be something that he noticed quickly. She was a creature of habit, like all humans, running in her large, lonely circles.

It was hard to tell when one day truly moved into the next, so set was her routine, the only variables so minor they would be easily overlooked. A difference in her tea or tea cup, a stop to the garden center on the way home. A change in her perfume, all done by her, according to whims that were hers and hers alone. Rocks worn down by the constant hands of the ocean, she would eventually start…really talking to him. Idle conversations, about what he liked to eat, if he had any interest in the garden she had outside (another source of her pride, he would come to discover), if he had left the home, spoken to any of the neighbors. The neighbors themselves were shades inhabiting a different world, a world of cook outs and children playing and easy socialization, and then there was Ava, trapped behind the glass of a zoologist, a specimen to be observed but not directly interacted with.

If her house could breathe, it would breathe the distinct odor of idleness and loneliness. There were no phone conversations, no more than a cursory greeting to neighbors who would happen to be outside and spoke more out of the rules of civility than desire, the unspoken snub rankling, prickling, turning inwards and slowly drawing blood. Her hobbies were solitary - gardening, reading, cooking. But pulled by some quirk in her upbringing, even if she wasn’t directly obsequious to him, she, in her own way, went out of her way to accommodate him, once his being there ceased to frighten her, ceased to be an unexpected break in the normal. They weren’t major concessions; just those born out of a genteel hospitality - small, thoughtful things that would characterize her as a thoughtless giver. Had he mentioned a brand of tea that he liked the smell of in passing, he would find that she kept it in the house for him. Had he stopped to admire a particular bloom in her garden, he would find that she took special care of it. Media would gush about how such things, small considerations of others, meant that there was a spark of love there, and only “love” specifically because she was female; men would, of course, make no such small gestures, they were only there to be pursued - but there was no such deeper emotion there. It was being polite, plain and simple, and had he the ability to look into her heart, there was a sense of gladness there, the act of doing for others a pleasure in itself.

She’d kept her promise on movie nights - consulting him on titles, setting it up to be its own ceremonial thing once a week. She would cook, turn the lights low, and settle in with him. There was distance, at first, but as humans are intrinsically drawn to others, she would move closer with each week, ending, eventually, with her side against his, and there it would stall. No head on his shoulder, no seeking an arm around her. It was a strange space to be in; to have this human here, but unable to allow herself to grow closer. If life had continued along, sleepily passing by everything else in its own steady decay, they very well could have kept circling each other, wary, but curious, unable to allow themselves the first bowing.

One hiccup was all it took. An errant buzzing of a text on her phone, the flurry of fingers over a keyboard. The staring at a screen, the flush in her cheeks, the internal tug. And then, the final severing of what was a human relationship, of what had pulled her out of her own trail into something that could have been welcoming, that she could have been normal, and her walls came tumbling down. There was no grand announcement, no desperate change. She would keep her unspoken word about the regularity of her movie nights, but the title, ah, the title this evening was a bit different, risky, one would even say: “In the Realm of the Senses,” - nothing so high art as what she’d introduced him to during previous weeks. This was a tale of raw desire, not prettied up by high production values. The movie had barely started when she knew she was going to make a mistake, but had finally gotten past the point of caring. Though his eyes were on the screen in front of them, she could sense that he was waiting; had been waiting all of this time. What hunter aimlessly chased after prey - and that’s what she was, she knew it, but at least she could be prey on her own terms.

With a clumsiness born out of disuse, she clambered onto his lap, straddling him with a confidence she didn’t entirely feel, and pressed her mouth to his, hardly waiting before parting her lips to caress his tongue with her own. If she was the aggressive one, if she was on the attack, it would feel like less of a mistake, more of her own plotting, less like she was being served up onto a tray onto an entirely disinterested party. Pride lent her additional strength - they’d been in this circle for weeks, months, and his disinterest was enough to wound her deeper than anything else. She was no beauty, she knew that, no head turner, but surely she was a woman, surely she had something that could be desired; she’d had lovers in the past. What made him so different? How dare he be different - and if he was going to be placid and to himself this entire time, for however long they had, then she was going to have to sate her curiosity and create her own balm for her pride.

She didn’t wait for a response from him, only deepened the kiss and rocked her hips into his, her hands running down the plane of his chest.

 

[WhisperedDesires]

As days passed into weeks passed into months, the nagging rise of lust settled deep within his essence. It did not go dormant, the presence of the woman who had stirred it so regular as to keep it alive, but it burned quietly, like embers within a dying flame, still hot, waiting for fuel to be added that it would blaze up once more. But as time passed, he left matters alone, watched quietly as the routines of this woman became apparent, like clockwork within a pocket watch, endlessly ticking in time with itself. His own presence was felt rarely during the day, the demon content to stay out of the woman's way as she went about her endless routines.

During the day, he chose primarily to keep to himself, staying indoors to avoid drawing attention to himself, at least until he was ready. But he'd been caught a few times by the neighbors, poking their noses into the sudden presence of a man within the normally solitary woman's house. He greeted those moments with a knowing smile, sowing the seeds of his presence with careful attention. They asked who he was, but they wanted to know what he was to her. He answered that he was a friend, though he let the tone of his voice, the slight hesitation before the spoken words suggest he was something more. He let them assume what they wished, draw conclusions of their own. Nothing was more convincing then ones own assumptions, and he was content to let them find their own answers. All the better that his affable mannerisms ingratiated himself to more than a few of those who "conveniently" happened by.

The night, as she slept, was when his presence was truly felt. He worked tirelessly upon the wards of the house, carving his presence deeper and deeper into the very frame of the building. The craft was done quickly, the demonic taint of his presence hidden beneath layers of protections. As nights passed, the wards only grew in strength and complexity, the runes carved into the anchor of the house growing steadily larger to encompass all that they needed to do. His work was hidden each dawn, commanded to disappear from visible spectrums, so that his work could continue uninterrupted the next night.

His time with her, however, was something of a dance. Always he watched, a spider upon his web, waiting for a moment of weakness, of vulnerability. It did not come for many days, instead the silent routine growing to include him, each night ending with the watching of a movie, most suggestion put forward by her. He viewed them willingly, a distraction from the current monotony of existence, the stories playing out upon the television enough to satisfy his appreciation for human creativity. She grew comfortable with his presence, drew closer physically as he became just another piece of her life. She sought little more, despite drawing closer, content to simply allow his presence, to silently accommodate him in little ways. For his part, he provided small services, made himself a fixture in her home. Idle days were spent doing simple chores, washing dishes, doing laundry, occasionally cleaning up some miniscule mess. It was all very... simple, this dance they wove around each other.

He felt it when something finally broke. He did not physically see the subtle shift, but then he did not need to. Her soul shook at the event, the calm steady burn of her fire sputtering as if struck by a sudden gust. He sensed it then, the sudden vulnerability, the quiet echo of something deep within her essence giving way. So he waited, let the day play out as it would, even as the lust that had been burning so quietly within his own essence roared to life once more. Patiently he waited, the routine kept, the movie selected and begun, even as the title and its contents spoke of raw desire.

They had hardly begun to watch when she moved, her legs straddling his as she mounted him, claimed his lips, tangled with his tongue. His hands found her hips, fingers digging into the flesh, roughly dragging her deeper against his own, pressing her against the hardness of his own lust. He could feel the fluttering fire of her soul, burning brightly but ever so disturbed, the wounded pride salved by hungry need, soothed by the demand that he notice her, for how dare he not? He would give more than simple attention, would indulge with her in vice and lust and pleasure.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Of course he would respond now, with her being the aggressor - and it would do little to ease her wounded pride. She could be playing into his hands, she knew he was playing into his hands, ha, the joke would still be on him: one could fuck, fuck a lot, without it ever crossing into the threshold of love. And she was under no illusions here, just wanting something to break, something to be different, to be aggressive for someone who didn’t seem to care one way or the other.

“Aren’t you tired of this,” she breathed, pulling her lips away from his, exhaling against the open cavern of his mouth, almost as if she could watch her words, her inner agonies, be drawn into the void that was hiding beneath the human exterior. She knew she was speaking more for herself; he was notoriously closed-mouthed, would offer her no more than a distorted reflection of herself, and perhaps that was the real insidiousness of demons of his ranking, that they were nothing more but reflections of the worst parts of ourselves -

She looked into his eyes, not expecting to see anything there save for a blackness, that unending void that sucked and consumed and offered nothing in return, and once again, she was reminded of the distant words from an even more distant friend, that she was a giver, and so she would continue to give, to pour herself into others that different offer an iota of what she was giving. Here he was, empty, bottomless, to be whatever she shaped him into, and it was so fucking unsatisfying, but she was stuck with him, and ignoring him, dancing around him, was getting so dull, how could she just send him back - the time for clarity would be later.

Prepared for this attack, she’d worn loose clothing, not bothering with a bra, and so she flung her shirt over her head, tossing it somewhere to the floor, using the brief break, again, to breathe, to fumble round her thoughts only to sort them into action, action, and more action, to pounce and attack and dominate, and her lips found his again, forcing them open, her body undulating against his own, primal motions stifled only by the clothing that remained between them.

 

[WhisperedDesires]

Her words, as she drew away, just enough to speak them, were at once meaningless and meaningful. To him, they spoke of herself, but at the same time, he could feel the meaning they had, in some small way, for himself. Even if she had not meant it to, could not have known it would mean anything at all, those simple words struck a cord anyway. The endless dance, the demonic need to gather more and more power to themselves, it was an eternal thirst that could not ever be sated. It was a tiring game in its own way, satisfying to his demonic urges, but never truly having an end in sight. That it was in his nature to continue the dance, and damn the consequences, was a reflection of his own cursed existence. Hands, once holding tightly to her hips, went limp for just a moment, lust temporarily forgotten.

Then he let the fire of sin burn once more, discarding the introspection, discarding the tiring nature of his own eternal existence. He bathed in her pain as it washed over him, let her lust drag him into a state without the need for thought, only action. As she revealed herself, revealed the shape of her breasts, one hand slid from its place on her hips, followed the curve of her belly up to grasps the soft flesh, to feel its fullness in the palm of his hand. Then she was claiming his lips once more, demanding, acting, feeling, dominating. His own primal nature rose to meet the challenge that was not a challenge, and he moved, hands holding her long enough to twist around so that she was beneath him then, her back pressed to the couch. He pulled at the loose clothing that covered her waist, revealed more of her form to him, growling with annoyance that their lips had to break contact to remove the offending garment entirely.

He stood then, after having tossed the remainder of her clothing somewhere, gazing down at her naked form with dark eyes, drinking in her appearance, examining with the benefit of his own lust awakened. How could one not want her? How could one not wish to claim her as their own, keep her, desire her? He was still clothed, but that could be addressed later, for he wanted to savor her lust, drive her to the peak again and again until she lay exhausted. He knelt before her, hands following the skin of her legs up towards her hips, towards the core of her lust, exalting in the slow savoring of her warm skin.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Well, one thing for was for certain – he was the best kisser she’d ever encountered.

It’d been ages, not since she was a teenager eager to discover the “mystery” of sex and get it over with, since a kiss was enough to make her wet. Even with her on the offensive, for her, her kisses weren’t so much erotic as something that needed to be done, a dam that needed to be broken. Mechanical in an authoriatarian way – how she, if she realized it or not, approached most things in life. Things needed to be done, and no one else was going to do them.

For once, though – as their positions were changed, and her back pillowed into the couch, maybe she would actually allow herself to enjoy this. Even if it was something that needed to happen, it didn’t mean she couldn’t take pleasure in it. And so, when he tossed her shorts away, taking the dark panties with them, she brazenly opened her legs to him. It was welcoming – no, that wasn’t it. It was demanding: it was clear that she expected no less than his head buried in her sex shortly. The way she primly placed her hands on her knees, arched her back into the cushion, and made no attempt to hide her glistening lips from his eyes was proof enough.

Completely naked in front of him, perhaps she should have been a bit more modest; shy. The time for those games had been left far into the past. He’d been with her in the home long enough, had seen her naked enough, knew the roll of her stomach, the faint lines of stretch marks that dusted across her thighs, organic lighting, the dark tight curls of her cunt – there was simply nothing else to hide. And with that, came a deep sense of…comfort, maybe? An ease that slipped into her stomach: it was meant to happen. She looked up at him, not coyly, not like a woman with a secret or a bashful virgin, but with mild curiosity, seaching his face for any emotion outside of the calm mask that he wore. If he’d still had that calm face, she wouldn’t have been surprised; perhaps a bit insulted, how much more wounding could her pride take?

Still, as his pale hands traced the lines of her thighs, the flesh yielding to his grasp, it didn’t matter.

 

[WhisperedDesires]

Though his face remained as the mask it always was, guarded against any who might observe him, it was the eyes that would give him away. Rather than the cold, spider like patience that was so often reflected in his dark gaze, a fire burned, lustful and hungry. Primal was the only word that could describe the feeling rushing through him, the hunger he felt at the sight of her, legs spread, demanding his touch, his attention, his desire, all focused upon her. He could feel the rush with his own essence, the fire of his own blazing hot beneath the veneer of this mortal frame. Her gaze, so curious and unexpressive, pulled a growl of annoyance from him, that he was a mere curiosity to her, rather than the demon he was. He wanted to twist that face into one of pleasure, wanted to watch her squirm in delight, wanted to hear her voice filled with lust, screaming into the night for all to hear of her satisfaction.

There was no warning to the sudden lunge forward as he lips found her glistening folds, no words spoken as his tongue tasted the nectar of her cunt. Hands gripped her thighs, demonic strength holding her in place as he drank in her taste, her scent, her lust. An inhuman rumble erupted from his throat once more, the primal nature of his own essence emerged. It sang its freedom within him, pulled at him, drove him to push his tongue deeper still, to explore her and taste every inch of her. Senses turned their focus entirely upon her, seeking signs of her pleasure, watching for any hint of her desire given form, even as he continued to worship of the altar of lust that was her depths.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Ah, there it was – the most human thing about him yet. His burning eyes that did something to her, a “did” on a level she had thought she’d experienced with her previous lover/friend, the person who’s dismissal caused her to summon “Marlow” to begin with, but now, in this demon’s face, the emotion she thought she’d known as primal lust seemed childish at best, fawning, simpering, all too simple. His look literally pulled at something within her, as physical as if he’d bodily lifted her from the couch and tossed her aside. She’d ride this wave as high as it would take her, and enjoy every moment –

His growl was met with a low hiss of pleasure from her as he delved into her wet sex, and without any grace or humility, she grabbed the back of his head with her right hand, her fingers slipping through his hair and gripping it tightly at the roots. There was no need for tenderness or sweetness here; lust mingled with anger and delayed graftification and me me me mine mine mine, and fighting against the grip of his hands on her thighs, she bucked her hips into his mouth, twisting, turning where she could, to get his tongue to lave against her clit, the sensitive labia minor that were so slight as to almost not be there, for his tongue to prob against her opening, already sopping and waiting for more.

The time for words had past – the movie, forgotten, played on in the background, Japanese mingling with the gutteral growls of him, the breathless shuddering from her, the occasional hiss, then, long drawn out moan as he licked, tongued, just right, her head tilting back to fall against the head of her couch, her brows knit, her heels trying to find purchase on his back as she tried to wrap her legs around him, to pull him closer, to devour him.

 

[WhisperedDesires]

The grasp of her hand against among his hair was a command, a demand, to continue his worship of her. Her bucking against his grip, twisting and turning, was a guide to her pleasure, his tongue ravishing her clit before sliding eagerly past, probing into her depth with the enthusiasm of a thirsting man finding water. Her hisses, moans, shudders, all were evidence of her pleasure, of her lust finding satisfaction in his actions. All drove him onward, and when her legs wrapped around him, braced against his back, sought to drag him harder against her, he relished in it, in her demand, in her taught muscle and soft skin pressing in on him from all sides.

But though her lust was being fed, he continued to lavish his attention upon her. He would drive her to the peak, her first of many if he had his way, hear her voice at the pinnacle, feels her body rock itself in bliss, taste the honey of climax. Anything less would be unsatisfying, an insult to her lust and his hunger. He could feel his own lust, his length hard against his own leg, fueled by the voice echoing in his ears, but it went ignored. She would find her first moment of utter pleasure before he concerned himself with anything else. Then and only then would he move on, would he seek his own pleasure, feed his own endless hunger with the pleasures of her body.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Too much, and not enough – she kept her grip on him, thighs, hands, heels, spurring him deeper and her higher. Whatever concern she would have typically had – she’s taking too long, is he comfortable, is he okay with this – didn’t matter, didn’t even register. Maybe she’d be embarassed later at how selfish she was being, but no. This was his role; this is what he was supposed to be doing.

And a fine job he was doing at it as well. The only thing that could make it better was a change in position, her astride his face, truly looking down at him, but, perhaps later, when she wasn’t so close to the edge of orgasm, and from the grip he had on her thighs, it would have been quite the task to try and untangle herself from him. Not a problem, as far as she was concerned. She was going to keep taking from this creature, force him to new heights as well, to new thought patterns, just, now, she had to answer to her flesh and soothe her wounded ego. The growls and the frantic questing of his tongue wasn’t enough; she wanted to hear him. Hear him luxuriate in the warmth of her cunt, tell her how tight she was, how she squeezed, how he was going to fuck her open and ruin her for every other man, another level to this war between the two of them, to drag her down in the mud and make her beg to have him take her in every hole, to merge over and over until all she could smell was him, all she’d want was him, easy, wouldn’t it, and it’d be okay to fall all the way, only here, only in this fucking, still keeping the precious part of her heart neatly tucked away, he had no interest in it, after all.

A fierce tug of his hair, enough to have made a mortal’s eyes water, and, then, a stuttering bucking of her hips into his mouth, erratic, rubbing frantically against him as her heart pounded harder, faster, stilling, panting, her muscles tensing, tensing, tensing, and then, snapped like a rubber band. She was cumming, a low groan escaping her, not a high, whining shriek of glee, but the sigh of a dying animal – a long groan of “Fuuuuccccckkkkkk,” inelegant in its breathiness, but a testament to her orgasm, if the tightening of her hips around his shoulders hadn’t been enough.

It had been good, but not enough, not nearly enough, and she intended to make him pay for his slight to her ego. There was no time to catch her breath now; unhooking her legs from his back, she resisted the urge to be truly cruel, to yank his head up by the hair she still gripped to force him to look at her, though that streak was there – dormant for years, that sweet, tempting urge of cruelty, but, again, she bit it back, waiting to see what he’d do next, what cue he’d take from her, or if he’d, beyond her belief at this point, act on his own interests and do to her what he wanted, not what she’d prompted him to do.

 

[WhisperedDesires]

He tasted the moment her lust peaked, felt the sudden tightness of her muscles wrapped around him, heard the music of voice as she came against his mouth, her hips stuttering against his tongue. It fed him further, tore through the last vestiges of control he bore. The sin of Lust, singing in her soul, brought forth more of his primal self, contained so long ago behind layers and layers of spider-like calculation and control. As she uncoiled herself, released the grip she held over his head, he spared her not a single moment. Lips, still shining with the taste of her sex, found hers as he was suddenly higher now, suddenly naked now, clothing dissolved with a reflexive burst of demonic power. Lashing tendril of its remnants arced across his skin, tingling wherever it jumped between the pair. Somewhere in his mind, the feel of her lips brought forth images of seeing her, knelt before him, those lips around his length, bobbing at it, licking it, worshipping him as he had worshipped her. Later, it was decided, later he would see that sight, but now there was only one way to quench the fires, only one use for the softness of her feminine form.

Even as his tongues laid claim to her mouth, tangled with her tongue, his cock, hard and feeling as if on fire, found itself positioned against the wet entrance of her cunt. At any other time, perhaps he would have waited for some signal, sought to tease her, draw out her pleasure, manipulate her in some manner. In this primal state, lust demanded satisfaction, anything else was simply too much thought. He drove into her without mercy, the growl of satisfaction felt rumbling through his entire frame as the demon within made his pleasure known. The way she wrapped around him, the warmth of her core, the grip of her walls around him, somewhere his mind had the wherewithal to brace his hands anywhere but her body, because for a moment he lost control of the veil he placed over himself, felt his human fingers shift into demonic claws, felt strength tear furrows into the back of the couch. The moment passed, the crack in the veil repaired, claws becoming fingers once more.

A moment, to savor the feel of her, to exalt as for a moment the fire burning inside was sated, and then primal lust dragged action from him once more. He pulled away from the kiss then, panting with lust, eyes no longer dark orbs but burning embers filled with only one intent. His his rocked back, pulling himself from her depths, hissing in aggravation at having to leave the warmth of her behind, only to rumble once more with pleasure as he drove into her again, reaching deeper, hungering for the pleasure of her flesh. Rhythm was found quickly as he drove into her again and again, uncaring of her will, uncaring of anything but the pleasure, anything but the fulfillment of the lust that spilled forth from them both.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

She was smeared all over his mouth, his chin; with the flickering lights of the tv behind him, his face glimmered. Smelling herself as his mouth found hers, she kissed back, if not eagerly, then just as competitively, just as jousting for power, but content to play the role of the “defeated” for the time being. There was no recoiling or fear as his clothes were magicked away, small sparks of power still dancing across their skin; it was nothing, compared to how she felt inside.

I should have done this sooner.

A rational thought among the cloud of lust – then, he had his shriek. Surprise, slight pain – the bite of her fingernails into his back as he thrust into her with one hard snap of his hips. Dimly, she was aware of the couch on either side of her shoulders splitting, melting under the strength of his claws, and it spurred her desire further. Burying her head in the crook of his neck, she wrapped arms, legs around him, clinging to him desperately, it was less pleasure of the flesh – it was too rough, too hard, for the nuances of her body to be pulled in that direction, and more pleasure of the spirit. To be used, to be taken unashamed, and with such force, such power, on a level that she felt deeper than ever before. Each thrust, hard, authorative, drove his message further – mine, mine, mine, and as she wiggled beneath him, trying to match his thrusts with her own, her body spoke back, yours yours yours, sweat slick and unable to keep a better hold on him, though she tried, heels sliding against his back, her teeth clamping on the side of his throat.

Sadism, a bit now – raking her nails across his back, her teeth in his neck, both in anger still, anger at having been denied this for so long, for her still having to make the first move, for how easily her body melted into his, and some insecurity, trying to cling to him, to make sure that this was real, that he wouldn’t leave, not yet, not until he’d made her cum over and over until her name was some distant memory. Language already was fading, the long swear from her before having long since dissolved into hiccuping breaths, sharper cries at particularly hard thrusts, softer whimpers as she would, somehow, relent, and, tired, lay there, a vessel for him, and then, growls of her own as she’d catch her second, third, fourth wind, and cant her hips hard back into his, a vicious dance.

That’s why her own orgasm caught her by surprise. There was no warning from her body like before, just a sudden howl as her head was thrown back hard into the couch, a shudder through her body – but yet, sore, overly sensitive, she didn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. Tilting her head back down against his neck, her forehead slipped across the lean muscle, her fingers grasping at his back, unsteadily, but her hips didn’t stop.

 

[WhisperedDesires]

Her shriek was the first note in the symphony of her lust. Even as he drove into her, she sang for him, the quiet breathless moans, the hiccups, the cries, the whimpers as her body lie beneath him, all were notes of music to his ears. Each drove him to claim her body again and again, to feel the yielding softness coil around him, cling to him, give to the repeated thrust of his cock into her depths. The pain of her nails, scraping against his back, the sharp sting of her teeth biting into the soft flesh of his neck, all just drove him on, kept him pushing into her. Sweat covered his frame, a result less of physical exertion and more from the continuous build of the lust within, burning ever higher and hotter.

Then her howl, the wave of pleasure that exploded from her, sudden and without warning. It was like the end of the prelude of her song, the first chorus ringing within his ears. He bathed in the beauty of it, heard it in ways no human could understand, felt it stir the very depths of his essence. He could feel himself growing closer to his own release, his own lust and pleasure pushing him closer and closer. But he needed more, needed to hear her cry out, needed to push her over the edge again, needed to feel the waves of pleasure cascade from her. Not enough, never enough, he needed more of her, needed to bask in the brightness of her lust fueled soul, hear more of her symphony, witness the moment exhaustion took her, when all else fell away and the only thing that mattered was the satisfaction of lust. She could burn brighter, she must burn brighter!

With a hiss he drew himself completely from her depths, freed himself from her grip. Once more the time between their separation, between actions driven to send them both higher, was mere moments. He grasped her, twisted her around, settled her on her knees before him, positioned her so he could take her like the beast he truly was within, primal and animalistic. A fierce growl issued from his throat as he took her again, drove his cock into her cunt, but this time there was not waiting, no basking in the momentary pleasure. His rhythm and pace were could only be described as frantic now, hungry, devouring, seeking the very depths of her sex. A hand grasped her hips, roughly dragging her back into him, forcing her hips to slap against his thighs, the sound sharp within the room. His other hand grasped at her hair, pulled at her, dragged her head up, wanted nothing to stand between hearing her voice, hearing her sing for him, even as his own panting breath signaled the building of his pleasure, heralded the coming of his own release.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Moving, being moved – registered to her on the corner of her senses, the change of sensation under her hands, her knees, put in her place, but not entirely docile about it. The change was brief, she could still feel him in her even though he’d withdrawn, but before she could mourn his loss, he was surging back into her, startling another shriek from her, her throat cording, her voice torn, fading into hoarse nothings.

His hips slamming into hers was too much, far too much; unable to hold herself up further, she slumped forward, her shaking arms giving way, raising her ass that much higher into the air – until he reached forward, grasping a handful of thick hair, and she gasped her head thrown back, her obidently getting back to her hands and knees to aleviate the pressure on her neck, her scalp, though he could feel her shaking beneath him. Her body was no longer her own, and though she felt past her limits, no, long since driven past them, she managed to keep herself up, adjusting, scooting closer, still managing to buck her hips back into his, a rough, erratic rhythm. He was going deeper now, harder, in parts that caused flashes of pain along with the sheer esctacy of being taken, really, and truly taken, desired, more than before –

Her brows creased, her mouth dropped open, and she cried out now, uncaring how loud she was, how scratchy her voice was, how strange she may have sounded, moan after moan escaping her, her eyes dry, her mind blank, her nipples erect, caressed by the cold air, the menu screen on the DVD repeating mindlessly in the back, and then, forcing its way through the pain, she was cumming again, it was forcibly pulled from her body, and she was so caught by surprised that there wasn’t much of a sound, a strangled sort of squeak, her body tightening around him, milking him and holding him in place, her whole being shaking, her mind past anything remotely resembling human thought.

 

[WhisperedDesires]

The sounds torn from her throat continued to drive him forward, continued to egg him on. Her moans grew in volume, and with it his anticipation, his pleasure leading him towards the inevitable end. All was forgotten, ignored, irrelevant, but for the feel of her body, the sound of her siren song, the wet folds of her cunt wrapped around him, milking him, pulling at him as he drove into her. Then, the crescendo of her symphony came, not with a scream but with a hoarse squeak, but to him it might as well have been a full orchestra, the wave of pleasure that exploded from her. She tightened around him, impossibly so, and with a sound that could only be described as an inhuman roar the demon within finally found his release with one final crash of his hips against hers, pumping his seed into her depths. There was no kindness even in this, for as he filled her body, hands grasped at her shoulders and pulled her roughly up, so that her back pressed against his chest, and his lips, his teeth, found her neck, biting down, marking her, claiming her even in this final moment.

And then it was done, primal lust sated, at least for a time, and rational thought found its way back into the demon's mind once more. The veil, worn thin, was restored with a whisper of power, even as he remained buried inside her, luxuriating in the feel of her, basking in the glow of her soul, the slickness of her skin. She was kept pressed to him, strength supporting her weakened, tired body against his own. He moved them both after a few minutes, so that she lay atop his frame, her body across his own, her chest and stomach exposed to the open air, while he lay between her and the couch. Though reason had returned, the cold spider of his mask was not, the fire burning in his eyes still even if he drew reason back into his thoughts. He would wait, patiently once more, until she'd gathered herself once again, and then they would see what, if anything, needed to be said.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

What truly could be said after an experince like that?

She was dreadfully, frightfully sore – so sore, in fact, she wasn’t entirely sure if she could take him moving out of her just yet, a sentiment her body echoed silently as her inner walls still clung to him, pulsing weakly, slowing. There was no tenderness in him; not that she would have expected it, and her body was a constallation of his making – tingles in her scalp from where he pulled her hair, the smarting of her neck where he’d bitten her. In a movement that could have either been fatigue or affection, she tilted her head back on his shoulder, allowing herself to lean fully back into him.

She didn’t trust herself to speak; not only because of a distinct lack of words, but because she wasn’t sure her throat was capable of producing anything resembling human language. Her brain was still adrift in a fog of experience, of being pushed beyond limits she hadn’t known she’d set for herself, desperately trying to process a literal otherwordly experience.

Slowly, slowly, her heart beat returned to normal, her breathing settled. For a brief moment, forgetting herself, there was a slight curling back into him, an attempt to snuggle closer, to wrap herself firmly in the man that had marked her so, then, it stopped, as abruptly as her “attack” on him earlier had started. She shifted her hips, this way then that, working him within her, testing how her body felt. It screamed in protest, and so she stopped, still with him impaled inside of her. The motion, however, and the subsequent clenching of her cunt against him in a desperate bid for her not to move, released a small flood of their fluids, and she groaned, her eyes fluttering shut, feeling how he still seemed to burn within him, the pleasure of those orgasms coaxing her body into thinking, maybe I can handle just a little more, I want more of him, the thought of her sucking on his cock until he came, and she was gagging, her mouth full of him and his seed, but still drinking it like it wasn’t enough, that it wouldn’t ever be enough, crossed her mind. Delicious, all of him.

So she stayed, him still buried, her hands idly on the couch, sweat dampening the fabric, and comfortable against the lean muscle of his thighs.

 

[WhisperedDesires]

In the silence that followed, he simply lay there, letting her relax back into him, content to simply exist for the moment. His breathing evened out quickly, steadied into a slow, gentle in and out that had his chest rising and falling. He felt it when she began her test, the subtle motions of her body, her hips, as she assessed the limits of her mortal frame. Whatever it was she found, it was apparently enough to cause her to cease her movements, punctuated by the sound of her voice groaning out into the room. Within him, the sound tugged at his lust again, brought some bit of that primal need burning back to life, but this time he kept hold of it, quenched it with temperance and patience. He would have her again, drive her body to its limits and beyond again, but not quite yet. Her mortal flesh needed time to rest, to heal, before it was driven to the edge once more.

Other senses examined her soul, watched with satisfaction at the strength of her fire. Lust had set her soul ablaze, revived the embers and fueled her essence. Whatever weariness she felt now, it would be only that of her physical body.

Still, as he lay there, as time passed, measured only by the breathing of two beings and the gentle hum of a menu screen for a movie that had been entirely ignored, he felt something, inevitably, would need to break the stillness. Even if he was content to lay there, remaining buried inside of her was a temptation that was eroding, ever so slowly, at his willingness to let her gather herself. A distraction was needed, else he might decide that she'd rested long enough and dragged her back into action. Conversation was the most easily attained, something that could be done without the need to entirely remove himself from basking in her soft warmth, though he found little that needed to be said. It came to him slowly, after minutes more of silence, something that did indeed deserve to be said, a compliment, at least to him, that should be acknowledged.

"You held up well." His voice, surprising even to him, still held the rumble of his demonic form. It was deeper, now that clear words were spoken, then his "human" voice, almost gravel like in quality at the roughness. "There are few that can move at all after experiencing a demon's primal lust."

 

[Apollo Wilde]

A dried wheeze, dead leaves crumbled underfoot or in the hand. A heaving of her chest, then coughing. That had been an attempt at a laugh.

The last time she remembered being this tired was after casting the spell that brought him forth – ridiculous how she didn’t seem to be content until she pushed her body to its absolute limits. That had been a physical and an emotional drain, the steeling of wills, pushing herself to be stronger than she ever had before. Now, her body would barely respond to her brain, her cunt was on fire, and muscles she didn’t know she had were sore. With a shaking hand, she did something unexpected – she reached back, clumsily, and caressed the side of his face. It was the only time in their time together that she’d touched him out of tenderness, out of something that was human, not simply put a hand here or there to guide him – the kisses before had been born out of anger, nothing close to sweetness.

Letting her hand drop, she took in a deep, shuddering breath. She could hear the difference in his voice, but again, it didn’t frighten her. She’d just done the most frightening thing, after all – but after everything was said and done, she couldn’t deny the warming hum, the glow that came after an amazing fuck. She was content, could be purring to herself for all he knew, and even as much as she hurt, that too, came with a statisfaction, the ease of someone who had finally been well-sated. Her brain could kick in later, tell her it was all a physical thing, but for now, she indulged in what her body told her.

You’re his, you know.

Nothing romantic, nothing that would cause her to sigh and daydream. Though she’d been the one to initiate it, he’d done “well enough” so that she felt, ever so slightly, that the tables had been turned. Damn. Score one for Marlow. So he had her sex wrapped round his finger; that didn’t mean she was any closer to falling in love. Ugh, swallowing hurt. She repeated it until she felt her throat was whole enough to speak. But what to say? She hated to admit weakness, let alone weakness to a demon. And though she had the impression that he might have already known, she felt that she should say something anyway. “I lost,” it was halting, stumbling, though not from emotion. “I thought you’d be first.” There was more she wanted to say, but not like this; not when her throat physically wouldn’t allow her to.

You were the one that was supposed to have been interested in me, her brain whined, finally able to recognize the scent of wounded pride emnanting still from her, through the thick cream of physical and primodial statisfaction, past the spider-webbed desire to be used, to be approached like any other woman, instead of shied away from, instead of her always having to be on the prowl. One day, maybe.

But at least he hadn't ceremoniously dumped her off his lap. So that was some sort of progress.

 

[WhisperedDesires]

He froze at her touch, body stiffening noticeably. The action was unexpected, and with the return of his reason, so too did the eternal game. Everything action was one with a purpose, some ulterior motive. Possibilities were considered in the moments that her hand, soft and warm, brushed against his cheek. Nothing, however, could be found that made sense to him, that fit as some angle to be made. Confusion followed, hesitation, but then her hand fell away, leaving him only with the sense of not understanding, not being sure why she'd touch him that way, why it needed to be done. Then her words pulled him away from considering the matter further, the return to the familiar, the dance between them, or at least the results of it.

"You are the one who compared me to a spider. Spiders are nothing if not patient hunters." There was a pleased timber to his voice, the pride that came with success. Her will had broken first, whatever the case, but in the end that was only a minor win. The fulfillment of lust, while pleasurable, also served as a measure of dominance. He had won this round, had driven her to the edge of her limits and dominated her body. That didn't mean, however, that she had entirely lost, and if she were going to be so forthcoming, he supposed he would as well. "If it is any consolation, you are the first in centuries to draw out my primal nature. Truth be told, if you were not so worn and fragile, I would probably be fucking you again. But it wouldn't do to break my lover, now would it. Better, I think, to let you recover, so that we may indulge again in the future."

And he would be taking the opportunity to lie with her again, when it came. She had proven a satisfying partner, the fire of her soul enough to draw out his own lust. Whether it was a matter particular to her soul, or perhaps a result of the contract that bound them together, he found he didn't care. Enjoying sex was a rarity for him, usually a task to be done almost clinically, pleasurable but not satisfactory. This experience was far more enjoyable, and he would be an idiot to pass on further opportunities to taste of her lust again. Almost absentmindedly his hands traveled along her body, felt along the curve of her stomach and the swell of her breasts. He would hear her song again, preferably sooner rather than later. But first she must heal.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

He had her there. Though his tone was calm as always, with no discernible hint of mockery, it still grated against her. “Could at least be a graceful winner.” There - she was at her speaking limit now, her throat simply unable to perform the gymnastics that speaking naturally required. Funny, how little thought goes into the processes of daily life - opening eyes, breathing, speaking. And how pushing things a bit too far could snap all of those delicate balances.

That crackling of dead leaves as she coughed out a small laugh. The first in centuries, eh? She turned to face him, her face open impishly, with a playful quirk of her lips. And then, without quite knowing why, she took the sides of his face in her hands, letting her fingers trail down the sides of his warm face. Not as tender as the previous gesture, but there was amusement there, the natural human desire to be close to someone after sex, even if the sex meant nothing. He was warm, he’d filled her, he’d sated her desires. And as he caressed her, his hands warm on her stomach, the curves of her breasts, that primal nature of hers was soothed; spoken to. She pressed back against him, letting her head fall onto his shoulder. She was calmed, more than she had the right to be, luxuriating in his touch, feeling him remake the lines of her body. If her brain was working fully, it would have been all too easy to dismiss it, to write it off as something else entirely, but for now, she was content to think that perhaps he was expressing some sense of satisfaction with her, even if it was on a subconscious level.

And now, as she slowly, carefully, pulled herself off of him, feeling that last gush of warm fluids coat her thighs, drip down onto his lap, pool on the couch beneath her, she let out a low hum of contentment, grasping tightly to the couch on either side of him. She was still weak, her body shook, convulsing, her legs buckling before she fell ungainly to the other side of the couch, next to him. Tilting her head back again, she saw the grooves carved into the couch, and coughed her meager excuse of a laugh, running her fingers over the damage. Indulge in the future, eh? “Not sure if my furniture can take it,” she managed to rasp out, turning to look over her shoulder at him, a faint smile on her lips.

 

[WhisperedDesires]

Once again her hands found his face, her expression one of impish delight, and once again he froze with uncertainty, his hands pausing in the absentminded exploration of her form. Now, looking at him, she'd be able to see the subtle narrowing of his eyes as he considered a dozen scenarios, discarding each as unlikely. Followed quickly was the hint of confusion, evident in his eyes, still far more expressive than usual after the release of lust. He did not know what to do with her almost tender touches, the signs of comfort, the almost casual way she lay back and seemed to enjoy simply being in contact with him.

And then it was gone, eyes watching as she stood, shakily testing her own ability to stand. Her limbs failed her, leaving her to collapse back onto the sofa, worn body sinking back into the fabric. He watched her gaze shift, watched her spot the grooves his claws had left in the furniture, heard her words. His own attention shifted to the furrows then, eyeing them critically before he reached only a single conclusion.

"You've more than one piece of furniture, I'm sure each can last at least one round. If needs be, more can always be found to replace what is broken."

He stood then, feeling the aftermath of their coupling, and finding the afterglow swiftly fading, to be replaced with the reality of drying sweat and the remnants of their sex. As pleasurable as the act itself was, the results afterwards left much to be desired, and while he would be content to simply magic away the grime, there was a much more enjoyable, if mundane, way to wash away the dirty feeling upon his skin. He almost moved in the direction of her shower, pausing as he almost lurched forward, the thought worming its way into his mind as if only just occurring to him. Ah, the part of the lover. He was supposed to offer her a chance under the water, wasn't he?

"Will you be showering first, or shall I so that you can gather your strength? Or perhaps, if you have little care for showering with me again, you wouldn't mind me carrying you in."

 

[Apollo Wilde]

Mmm, she should get up. Really. At this point, however, the couch was never going to be in its “pristine” state again. Living alone had left little wear and tear on the furniture, giving it that stale air of belonging to someone, but never well-used. Reaching up, she let her fingers sink into the grooves his claws had made, felt the difference in the size of their “fingers.” His aloof comment about the furniture would have made her laugh, was she not so wary of how sore her throat was.

Still, as he got up, spoke of the shower, she made herself sit up. Propping herself up on her elbows, she knew that a shower probably would be in order. She smelled of the heavy musk of sex, body odor, fluids. The damp spot rapidly cooling. It would be slovenly if she laid there any further. However…she was comfortable. Warm, despite the cooling sweat, the temperature drop from his absence. And she felt..fine, wanting to lay there, marinating in his lust. To indulge in his smell. Considering how much time she spent to the art of bathing, it was strange, but not something that she spent a lot of thought on. She’d allow herself this much of an afterglow.

He mentioned carrying her. And she responded - not bothering to get up, but holding her arms up in a childish, “Pick me up!” Gesture that spoke louder than words. She hadn’t been thinking clearly - it was the first gesture that came to mind. And even as logic tiptoed in, wanting to chide her for acting like this, well, she would consider it a revenge of sorts. He hadn’t been a gracious winner, after all! Hadn’t admitted that he’d wounded her feminine pride deeply, and of course she would be able to take his lust; she’d summoned him, hadn’t she? Maybe he wasn’t quite what she expected, and she wasn’t sure what to really do with him, but she had summoned him, and therefore bent her to her will. So of course she could take whatever he would give her, but how dare he reduce her to the point of begging for scraps. The very least that he could have done was what he did - rather than tossing her the crumbs she’d been begging for, he’d served the entire meal.

Fair enough - but still not enough for her wounded pride. "Carry me," she rasped out, spite making her impish, "And run me a bath." The first spoken demands that she'd asked of him since that day months ago when she first summoned him. He could feel the spite in her, the twist in her spirit that made her petty and a bit childish, but even beneath that, was humor. Humor to see if he'd do it. If he'd be amused by it.

 

[WhisperedDesires]

"I suppose this is the point where the girlfriend makes demands of her lover imperiously. And what do I earn by performing these tasks for you?"

He picked her up then, unceremoniously scooping her from the couch and carrying her down the hallway. His eyes spoke of humor, fully intending to do as she requested if for no other reason than it was expected of him. The manner she'd requested his help, or perhaps childishly demanded it, was nothing if not entertaining. He took some simple pleasure in the feeling of her skin pressed against his chest and stomach, but wasted little time in slipping into the bathroom. A brief pause as he considered where to set her down before he made the decision to seat her on the side of the bath, close enough that she could struggle into the bath itself if she wished while he prepared the water. A few twists of the knobs controlling the water, a few adjustments to find a temperature of an appropriate heat, and then it was a simple matter of waiting until the bath filled itself.

"I trust you won't mind someone joining you in your bath, unless you'd be so cruel as to send your lover away after satisfying yourself."

His tone was a mimicry of a wounded, rejected man, though the slight quirk of his lips betrayed any semblance of actual turmoil. While he could certainly force his way into the bath regardless, there was little point. Needless aggravation for a temporary joy, and one that could be received later. Better to let her have her choice in the matter, though wording it as he had, as if fully intending to have joined her, it would help in determining how much leeway he was actually being given.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

“You will earn my undying affection and gratitude.” Her voice was coming back, by fits and starts, but still sounded as if it’d been dragged through rocks, rough and tumbled. Enough of her was back for impishness to color the words, a high-minded teasing that suggested no serious depth of emotion. And as he scooped her up, she nestled against his chest, and swung her legs draped over his arms, leading a merry parade of just the two of them.

He deposited her gently - which somewhat surprised her. As long as Marlow had been in the house, they hadn’t quite touched - but moved around in other in an orbit that quickly grew to be second nature. He was never directly cruel, nor was he cold, as so much as aloof. More of his energy was furrowed into watching, waiting; a spider to the last. Unsettling, but unobtrusive in its own way and time had proven that she could get used to it. As she watched the water fill the tub, she thought with a bit of a wry smile, that their violent coupling was the most they’d ever actually touched since he’d been summoned.

“I should have done this sooner.” Leaning forward, she slipped her hand into the water, letting it swirl about her fingers. “Demanding to be carried everywhere.” She looked over at him with a small grin. It was a bit of a crack in her normally composed self, but a crack was not a break. His humor was welcomed, almost…homey, in a sense, after their intimacy. Now that reason was getting back to her, and still nursing that prickle of wounded pride, it was easier to smile with him, to allow that guard to relax, but not to drop. He’d pleasured her well enough, and there was the promise of more encounters, but to delude herself into thinking that she was seeing the real “Marlow” would be a fool’s errand.

Her back to him for a moment, she reached over and added a scoop of fine white bath powder. As it combined with the water, the bath turned into a milky white, releasing a breath of flowers with it. “And yes, I suppose I could allow someone such as yourself the honor of bathing with me.” Pouring it on thick she was, thick molasses over the broken glass of her scratched throat. “But I’m getting in first.” And unceremoniously, she launched herself into the tub, sending small waves to lap over the edges, to splatter against the floor and drench the bathroom rug and towel.

The tub was about 70% of why she chose this place, and perhaps there was a bit of enchantment going on with it to make it that much more fitting. On the onset, it seemed as an ordinary garden tub; far too large for just once person. And, as Marlow would join her, the tub would seem to expand, wiggling itself outwards to adjust to his body to fit easily alongside hers.

 

[WhisperedDesires]

"Truly, the greatest of rewards."

His dry tone said all that needed to be said about the "gift" of her affection and gratitude. Still, he seemed more dismissive of it than outright hostile to the idea, and there was the subtle hint of amusement at the impishness hidden beneath her words. Regardless, he waited patiently as the tub filled, watching with idle curiosity as she let her hand part the water, swirling about her fingers. The smell of flowers, preceded by the emptying of powder into the now milky water, was met with a brief look of skepticism, but that too passed as she "granted" him her blessings to join her and slid into the water herself. Well, if she wished to play at being a noble lady of some sort...

"We are honored, most benevolent mistress. That you would grant me with reward is a gift I could not hope to match."

His tone was similarly teasing, playful almost, quickly followed by the demon sliding into the bath in a far more sedate manner than her own method. That the bath seemed to enlarge itself with his presence, manipulate its dimensions, that caught his attention, eyes narrowing in curiosity. She'd said this was a magical community, which likely meant the house itself had been subject to a number of magical residents throughout its life. None had thought, or perhaps merely overlooked, actually altering the fabric of the house itself, but its installations, and its furnishing, perhaps. All served well enough to distract from the closeness of the pair, the feel of her skin, the warmth of her presence.

He'd forgotten how much Lust intruded upon other, more important tasks. You'd think, being a demon, that he was more apt to handle such things with ease, but humanity had ever been wrong in its knowledge of the denizens of hell.

 

[Apollo Wilde]

If this was the most they’d touched each other since she summoned him, it would equally seem to be the most they’d ever spoken. Well, words beyond the routine of housekeeping, or her explaining movies. Actually, she thought, maybe that wasn’t correct. This was the closest that they’d had to an actual conversation since she summoned him. No wonder it fit so oddly. Odd, but not entirely unpleasant. If she squinted, perhaps she would get a better sense of who he was, peering through the various walls they’d placed around each other.

With his being a demon, it could all be a ploy. Without directly asking him, she’d assumed that his age was hers several times over, enough to have carefully watched and plotted against humans far more clever and intelligent than herself. Settling back into the tub, the brief expression of mirth that she’d worn before slowly slipped, washed away by the warmth of the water.

For the moment, at least, she would be safe in the tub. The warmth of the water was working its own magic to her sore muscles. If she had been thinking properly, she would have gotten herself a cup of tea. Perhaps she could send him out to get it; technically he was under her command. And she did seriously consider the idea, but even her childishness had its limits. He looked so…comfortable. Content. And she was fine watching him like this, his form half-way devoured by the tub. Even as the tub shifted, comfortably expanding its sides, their legs brushed against one another’s, and for not the first time, she considered that, enchanted though it was, the tub did have a certain level of sentience that lent it a sense of humor. Running her hand along the side of it, it was a gesture that she’d told herself more than once in the past was a reassuring and comforting caress; an assurance that she had a great affection for the tub.

“How long has it been, since you’ve fucked someone?” It was a crass question, tumbling down heavy in the pleasant quiet that had surrounded them. "Like that, I mean."

Wounded pride had nursed ways to soothe itself. She wasn't sure if she had it in her to be jealous of previous lovers of his; it seemed an exercise in folly. If he was as old as she assumed he was, the lovers, the experience he would have would make all that she knew fit on the head of a pin. It would be foolish, consigning herself to a personal Hell if she did. And even by asking the question, she knew she was clawing at a scab, looking to find someone, something, to be jealous over. A small, still part of her knew that insecurity would get her nowhere, but truly, in the face of his patience (disinterest, her mind read), she had to know that it meant something to him - even without knowing what it meant precisely to her.