Page 37 of The Dire Reaction

Following a similar path on her other leg, I let my wonton claw dig deeper into the meat of her thigh, leaving a ribbon of red marking my trail up to her waistband. A pair of white panties reveal themselves. What a sweet and childlike surprise they are.

Her heartbeat quickens, as does her breathing, and I know that consciousness has found its way back. When the scream starts, deep in her chest, she proves that the veil of sleep has now been lifted.

I love this moment. The first time they try to fight. To pull free of the restraints. When their skin slickens with sweat, when the corded muscles knot and band beneath the skin.

Her thigh tightens, the red strip of broken skin flexing, pushing out rivulets of blood.

Demanding her body to show me more, I spread the fissure to press more of the beautiful color from her. She bleeds for me, sharing her most secret treasure. The hunger it raises is new, but I’m happy to indulge. I’ve never before wanted to feast on my cherished prizes, satisfied to simply paint their skin and have them sing their songs of screaming worship. Nothing would be an homage more than to consume that which I hold so dear.

Resisting the urge to devour the hams of her leg, I think I’ll enjoy this one for a while. It’s been too long, and she’s too perfect to be rid of so quickly.

Her violent thrashing has subsided. Panicked breathing still hangs heavy in the otherwise quiet air.

Too quiet.

My hands find her shoulders, the hard edges of the scapulas pushing through her shirt like ridges along her spine. I want her bare before me. Fingers splaying across her thin shivering back, I dig my claws down just enough to erupt through the layer of her shirt, slicing through the elastic band of her bra, lightly fileting through her fragile skin.

Ah, there’s the scream. The testament of her passion. Filling the room with her accolades, I drag my hands down her back. When my nails bounce off her ribs as I pass over them, a new chorus of sounds punctuate her cries.

A spreading veneer of crimson tints the canvas of her skin. The mosaic of red, white and the blue of her clothing should be patriotic in its inspiring beauty. Countries should fly this flag above their capitals. Children should salute this glory in their classrooms.

I show my appreciation with a long sweep of my tongue, the sweet smell of her panic only enhancing the euphoric taste. Tickling over the smooth bones of her ribs, the taste differs where the hard shell is damaged and the savory butter of her marrow leaks through.

When I struggle to say how delicious she is, it comes out as a low hiss, words still not forming true in my strange toothed mouth.

Curse this mouth! How can I vocalize my appreciation, tell them how sweet their pain is?

Frustration flings me from her side, seeking my vestibule retreat. My trophy wall offers respite to my lamentations. The soft tendrils of my lovely prizes cascade with my touch, caressing my skin. Reminding me of their devotion, their love they expressed to me. My damnation is in not being able to return that adoration. It’s trapped silently in this guttural throat that growls and roars the words I wish to express.

Regaining my senses, I return to my pixie and her dainty whimpering.

Her toes curl, digging into the thin vinyl cushion. The movement flexes her calves, the muscles bunching through the slits in her clothes. The pale skin of her thighs flickers between the stained edges of the fabric.

Whole.

Unblemished.

How can this be?

Brushing back the tatters of her shirt, her bare torso heaves and writhes. But, it does not bleed. No mark carries on her skin. No rib is exposed to my affection.

Giddy with realization, I pour myself a full glass of my favorite scotch, and sit against her hip on the bench.

Unfazed by her fear, I’m quickly fascinated with tracing ragged patterns in her skin, like doodles in the sand.

Her screams are lyrical. I can draw out a rhythm with embellished dots and dashes that I tear into her soft flesh.

And it heals, before my eyes. Before I can enjoy a sip of my burning liquor, the tissue begins to knit at the fringes, drawing itself tight, and disappearing without a trace.

Curiosity draws the best of us, and I can’t deny the urge to render a small scrape upon my own knee to gauge my ability.

It heals, but fractionally slower than my sweet prize. My special girl. She is made for me. A repeatedly blank canvas to do with what I will.

My stomach grumbles again, impatient. I remember the brutish woman from the hospital, wishing I had the foresight to bring some of her thick flesh back with me.

Another experiment floats into my thoughts. Taking one of her small palms in mine, I see her eyes widen in panic as she watches me. Separating the fingers on her hand, I siphon her tiniest finger into my mouth. My tongue rolls it between my canines, even as she struggles to pull it free.

One tiny bite, a morsel really. A snack for my next expedition. Leaving her moaning wails, with the blood still running down her arm, I wonder if that delectable digit will grow back?

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