Page 107 of Phobia
“You’re ready,” he whispers to me.
I am. We are.
Crimson liquid, potent and sharp. I open my mouth to it, allow it to slip over my tongue.
We stand in my father’s office, in my father’s house, among the ruined and dismembered bodies of my brothers. Dominic. Angelo. We made quite a mess of them. And it was glorious. Worth enduring all the pain, all the terror, all the trauma and torture, to see their faces as we ravaged them, ripped them to shreds.
Blood is pooled all over the room like puddles after a rainstorm. Angelo’s body is draped over the desk at which he so loved to play court, his right arm missing, wrenched from his torso and thrown somewhere across the room. His head is cocked at an unnatural angle, his dark eyes unseeing as they stare out the window into the darkened night sky.
Dominic lies in the middle of the room, splayed like a rag doll. A big man in life, he looks like nothing more than a little child in death, the expression on his once-chiseled face one of horror, of surprise. Surprise that his baby brother, the one he resented and hated and tortured, would come back for vengeance in such a horribly spectacular way.
I stand now among them, my face and body painted in their fluids. In their blood. Once not so long ago, the very thought would have propelled me into panic. Now I feel alive. Their blood feeds me, nourishes me, brings me pleasure much greater than any atrocity they could have ever inflicted. I look down on them and feel a surge of joy at seeing their discarded remains, knowing they will never hurt anyone ever again.
Silas comes up behind me and draws me into a kiss, licking the blood from my lips. “Now we start anew, my love. We rid your future of this place, replace all the bad memories with new ones. With only good ones from now on, for as long as we both live.”
He doesn’t say how long that will be, but I know. Centuries will pass, and still we’ll be just as we are now. Him, my dark angel. Me his demonic beauty, born of the darkness and made whole through its persuasion and power.
I’m struck with a conflicting desire to have and be had among my brothers’ remains, in this room where they hurt me so many times before, to experience pleasure where once there was only pain.
I lean into his embrace, turning so my blood-stained front presses against his. I ghost my lips over his, tasting my brothers on his mouth. Angelo? Dominic? A mix of both? It doesn’t matter. All that matters is how good Silas tastes. How desperate I am for him to take me apart.
Our tongues tangle as his arms wrap around me, holding me, caressing me, sliding down my sides and over the globes of my ass. He squeezes me, massaging each tender muscle as he purrs into my mouth. The hot, fresh blood flows through us and between us, igniting our lust, as potent an aphrodisiac as the sadistic act we just committed. Together. As we do everything. Together.
“I want you,” I moan against his lips. I want him now, naked and squirming, covered in my brothers’ blood. I want to bathe in it with him, this symbol of my new life, my greatest fear now my greatest triumph. I want to baptize myself in it and rise from its depths complete and new.
Now we start anew.
As always, he knows what I need. Those slim, skating fingers skirt around to the buttons of my silk shirt and wrench them from their cuffs, tearing the fabric open to expose my crimson-stained skin, my peaked nipples and goose-bumped flesh. He kisses down my front as my eyes roll back, relishing the feel of him, the way he caresses and worships with each gentle yet frantic touch.
He’s tugging my pants open, his tongue licking at the seam, teasing as he pulls them down around my ankles to expose my hard, leaking cock. With one kick and then another, the fabric is freed from my legs, and I stand naked before him, looking down at his breathtaking face. On his knees, Silas looks stunning, radiant. My ethereal fiend, my monstrous god, the most powerful being to have ever existed, and he’s on his knees for me. To give me pleasure. I feel alive under his persuasion.
Before I know it, he’s skimming his hands into the layer of blood on the floor. He runs them up the length of me, coating my skin in red, red, red. More and more and more until I’m covered in a thick layer of it. The feel of it on my skin, his hands all over me, rubbing me down, is orgasmic, intense, glorious. I’m panting, running my hands through his scalp, nails digging in in desperation.
“I want more,” I groan.
He nods, humming, as he takes my cock in the wet warmth of his mouth. His teeth graze my shaft, coaxing small whimpers from my lips.
“More.”
He knows. He knows what I need. He knows what I want, so attuned to my body, so aware of my every need. He’s mine and I’m his—we’re one mind, one heart. One soul, connected in every way—perhaps because of the bond we share, the gift he gave me. He plays my body like a fiddle, an instrument he’s tuned and perfected in accordance with his own specifications.
He grips my hips and tugs me downward so I fall to my knees. But this time, he turns me around, pushes on the small of my back so I’m bent at the waist, my hands and knees deep in a puddle of blood, my ass against his front.
“Lower,” he says, guiding me gently yet forcefully so my chest rests against the floor. My cheek to the ground, I squirm in the blood, relishing the feel of it all around me. I love the sound of his voice when he gets like this. Commanding. My maker. My father. My everything. “Good boy,” he hums.
I feel his lips again, this time at my exposed hole, the most vulnerable part of me open to him as he spreads my cheeks to ease his access. And then I gasp as something fills me, something warm and wet.
Blood. He’s filling me with blood, pushing it inside me in a huge mouthful that leaves me panting and shaking.
“Hold it, my love. Hold it inside. Don’t let it out.”
I gasp, doing as he says, clenching the muscles tight, feeling the blood fill my channel, wanting to release it, to bask in that pleasure that I know will come. And still he continues to fill me.
Again and again, he laps at the floor, sucking up more and more of it so his cheeks are heavy and full. He forces it inside me, injecting me with that sweet, life-sustaining fluid, cleansing me from the inside out.
I begin to hurt, my body feeling so full. I want to release it all. I can’t take anymore. “Silas,” I groan, my body on fire from pleasure and pain and delirium and desperation. “I can’t. Please.”
“You can,” he says between mouthfuls. “Just a little more, my love. You can take a little more.”
