I love watching her as she lays beside me. White cotton sheet draped around both of our bodies. My finger traces her soft shoulder, down her arm and then my fingers splay out, linking through hers.
In a butterfly clasp.
She is breathtaking here in the pale moonlight. Skin of translucent milk.
I tighten the gentle grip of our hand holding. Giving quick squeezes of admiration.
And then,
In a butterfly clasp.
She is breathtaking here in the pale moonlight. Skin of translucent milk.
I tighten the gentle grip of our hand holding. Giving quick squeezes of admiration.
And then,
I snap it off at the wrist. Dangling the upper limb over my mouth. Sweet metallic blood drips down. Down onto my waiting tongue. I close my eyes, savoring the juicy nectar.
I cannot imagine a better bliss than this. A kiss of everything that is perfect.
I like them when they come to me willingly. There is no taint in their veins this way, accompanying their deaths. They simply become beautiful, delightful, dead things.
I suppose there is no reason for me to consume them. No need to devour the decadent flesh. I am above all that. No slave to the innate urges of my kind.
But I just cannot help myself.
These creatures called humans. They love their base inhibitions. Bohemian wolves in prim sheeps clothing. Oh they pretend they do not desire, do not ache for the forbidden. That they could never be driven to do such dark perverse things.
Wicked fiend! I have been called, while the women orgasm wildly. Then call out to me to do it all over again.
I am not particularly fond of the whole sexual physical act. But it’s what brings them to me. Warm and willing. I simply whisper the right words, stroke the proper parts and voila!
For me, the most intimate moment is when they bare their souls to me. As I tear open their chest cavities. Cracking, snapping bones seductively. I hear the symphony that is their heart beats. Oh how I adore its sound! And then I search deeper. Clearing away mucus and plucking membranes, to the prize that rests below.
The heart itself.
I am mesmerized with its every feature. For this is something one like me will never experience. Never feel. I almost despair inwardly because of it. Take away an artist’s spirit and you will then have a mere inkling of what it’s like to possess this knowledge.
That I exist but I do not truly live.
Ah well, I shrug. It is what it is. I will keep calling to them. These humans. Dissect them. Disassemble their puzzle pieces, then create my own masterpieces with the limbs, bones, organs, etcetera. The others like me, shall be green with envy. That I understand mankind so deeply. That I’ve taken the time to. I relish everything on them and in them. And I learn. Whereas the others simply devour, devour. No rhyme nor intelligent reasoning.
I shiver in anticipation.
Toss the hand away and lick my fingers. Tummy is rumbling again. The ache building painfully. I want to cry out from its pressure but instead, I hold it in. Reveling in the torture of doing so. I calm myself and lay down once more.
Cold silver moon brings my attention back to her. And I watch her as she lays beside me. White cotton sheet draped around both of our bodies. My finger traces her soft shoulder, down her other arm now and then my fingers splay out, linking through hers.
In a butterfly clasp.
“Attention to the Details” Written by ©®™ Atusha Avarus, Serial Writer
I cannot imagine a better bliss than this. A kiss of everything that is perfect.
I like them when they come to me willingly. There is no taint in their veins this way, accompanying their deaths. They simply become beautiful, delightful, dead things.
I suppose there is no reason for me to consume them. No need to devour the decadent flesh. I am above all that. No slave to the innate urges of my kind.
But I just cannot help myself.
These creatures called humans. They love their base inhibitions. Bohemian wolves in prim sheeps clothing. Oh they pretend they do not desire, do not ache for the forbidden. That they could never be driven to do such dark perverse things.
Wicked fiend! I have been called, while the women orgasm wildly. Then call out to me to do it all over again.
I am not particularly fond of the whole sexual physical act. But it’s what brings them to me. Warm and willing. I simply whisper the right words, stroke the proper parts and voila!
For me, the most intimate moment is when they bare their souls to me. As I tear open their chest cavities. Cracking, snapping bones seductively. I hear the symphony that is their heart beats. Oh how I adore its sound! And then I search deeper. Clearing away mucus and plucking membranes, to the prize that rests below.
The heart itself.
I am mesmerized with its every feature. For this is something one like me will never experience. Never feel. I almost despair inwardly because of it. Take away an artist’s spirit and you will then have a mere inkling of what it’s like to possess this knowledge.
That I exist but I do not truly live.
Ah well, I shrug. It is what it is. I will keep calling to them. These humans. Dissect them. Disassemble their puzzle pieces, then create my own masterpieces with the limbs, bones, organs, etcetera. The others like me, shall be green with envy. That I understand mankind so deeply. That I’ve taken the time to. I relish everything on them and in them. And I learn. Whereas the others simply devour, devour. No rhyme nor intelligent reasoning.
I shiver in anticipation.
Toss the hand away and lick my fingers. Tummy is rumbling again. The ache building painfully. I want to cry out from its pressure but instead, I hold it in. Reveling in the torture of doing so. I calm myself and lay down once more.
Cold silver moon brings my attention back to her. And I watch her as she lays beside me. White cotton sheet draped around both of our bodies. My finger traces her soft shoulder, down her other arm now and then my fingers splay out, linking through hers.
In a butterfly clasp.
“Attention to the Details” Written by ©®™ Atusha Avarus, Serial Writer
