Rounds two, three and four leave your body shaking and wired, as if the energy of a lightning storm had been channeled through the engine of your pleasure. He was a demanding, hungry lover but you found yourself easily able to match him even as your better sense insisted this is the last time after each climax. As much as he took from you, however, he gave more back. The headboard clattering against the wall was a sound that most prudish, good Greek girls would be rightfully scandalized by. Then again, how could you care about the cracks in the wall, or the (suspiciously deep) scratches in the headboard, or that damn clatter in the sheer primal intensity of the moment?
Or afterwards, panting and shaking next to him, the stentorian depth of his breath warm on your cheek...the pierced, thick heft of his cock against your thigh, and the sheer volume of his cum draining from you, a lovely mess amidst your own ejaculate.
You're much smaller against his midweight boxer's frame, scarred and hardened arms looped closely around you. He's wonderfully hot to the touch, the Assyrian darkness of his skin covered with a sheen of sweat, contrasting your alabaster coloring, and you can hear his heartbeat thudding...faster and harder than any man's you'd heard. It'd be alarming, as if he were in the throes of tachycardia if not for its regularity and the truth that dangled before you:
Your nameless, dark lover with his steel rings and musical, low voice wasn't exactly like you, or anyone else you'd met.
Sometime later, the two of you sit on the roof's edge of the motel you'd both rented in, overlooking the Riviera. The sun crawls across the horizon like it is throwing off a hangover. It's a sight you've witnessed a few times before from unfamiliar apartments but never from a rooftop. Never with a one-night stand, if that's what this was. With the summer haze it's already over 30°C this early and threatens to grow much hotter...but it's a nice, if bleak view for now.
His fingers are still intertwined with yours as the two of you talk about last night and you, characteristically straightforward and not one to mince words, inquire as to his nature...what he did to you, and why. He isn't apologetic about it, about his desire for you that'd built up for some time. Apparently he knew of you through a friend of yours, one who'd recently been convinced of the scientific and objective virtues of Marxism against the chaotic naivity of the Anarchist; he claimed to be something of the latter, but "able to get away with it better". Whatever that meant.
He saw you once at a party with some guy whose name you forget, and ended up spotting you on campus when Professor Valera gave her famous annual lecture on Engel's years of fraternization with the Young Hegelians - Yusuf made no secret of his disdain for any organization or structure and countered your logic frustratingly with airy poetry, obscure quotes by German economists and the occasional silencing kiss when he felt he was losing.
When you scoot back on topic he explains that after he saw you with someone else, he thought he had a shot with you; his bandmates - 'Percy' and 'Delilah' - were dragging him to the same spot as you, so he'd learned. As for
what
he did to you? The accusation is met with a coy smirk that makes your exhausted, well-fucked loins twitch once again with anticipation. He explains, quite simply, that soon you're going to be like him, and that is an existence that requires experience to be fully understood...and as for what he actually is?
His answer should be infuriating, but it's spoken while he's kissing up the line of your shoulder and to your ear, and it feels really nice. "We don't tell, not until the time is right. You'll learn why." Whatever protests and arguments you may have die in your throat and turn into a breathy sigh when you lock eyes with his. Your lips brush.
This Yusuf Mizrah man, whatever he is, embraces you warmly and leaves to "Hunt". He promises you'll see him again, very soon.
Between moonset and moonrise
Only a few hours of sleep, if you can call them that, separated the days since you saw him...since he did whatever he'd done to you. During that time you'd been feverish with energy, your hungers run rampant. It's simultaneously dream-like and yet you feel more awake, drawn-and-strained through your own body than since your worst hangover; at least there's no pain. Instead, a euphoric, sparkling sensation flows from your lower belly outward, through your organs and into your limbs. It leaves you heady, and your accompanying behavior has been...unusual. Normally you're a quiet, very polite woman with great dignity and diplomacy - you need it in your field - but at work you've been a mess.
Your dark eyes find themselves crawling over your colleagues like they're equal-parts main course at a steakhouse, or harlots at a brothel. It's difficult to distinguish where inappropriate hunger for their blood-rich livers, throats and bellies ends and your desire to touch, fondle, and fuck them begins. In the midst of a meeting between the regional director and your Austrian counterparts, you found yourself listening to the -skitter-scritch- of rodents in the walls...the slithering of something piscine and terrible through the pipes. Rosa interrupts to let you know you have a phone call with your client in Ankara and you
see the hint of needle teeth, of patagia folded under her slender arms
.
You realize quite suddenly it's nearly two hours after lunch and you haven't eaten - you simply snap to, as if time has been lost in the blackout between the meeting and now. You've been sitting there at your desk, drawing incredibly detailed, fast pictures of the moon from angles you don't recognize...is it your moon? It's going to rise tonight, and it's going to be full. The thought makes your thighs squeeze together, and His face rises unbidden in your mind...a sound from your lips that isn't entirely Christian. Your manager reels when he sees you, puts a cold cloth to your forehead and lays you down in his office while fetching you some tea. It's a pity...he's actually a really kind man, so why do you see him as little more than a bleating gazelle to throat and rut? A company driver takes you home, helps you inside and leaves you on your couch. Alone. Nobody here to care for you between now and the hour of the moon's rising. It's as if you're high on some drug, or incredibly sick but without any aches, pains or debilitating effects besides this languid heaviness and strange hunger. The time passes as you sweat, and finally shed your clothes to make your way shakily to your bathtub. You hear the sound of something massive moving around outside your home, claws ticking on concrete...the low, ripe scent of an animal far larger than a bear. You stand in front of a mirror, looking over your own body as if seeing it for the first time.
Your deep, black eyes have dark circles underneath them - you normally look somewhat tired from lack of sleep but the haunted quality of your gaze bespeaks unbroken nights. Your long, wavy curtain of sylvan-dark hair is plastered to your forehead in places but also...shiny and vibrant, soft as if it'd been freshly conditioned. Your lips, always set in what an ex-girlfriend described as 'a wry little smile', pull back to reveal your teeth shining ivory-white.
Your canines look a bit sharper on top and bottom.
Your skin is pale and slick with perspiration, but everything seems to...stand out a bit more. The sinews of your graceful neck are more defined; your arms aren't quite as skinny as you imagined them; the muscles of your long, svelte thighs are steel cords against your pale skin. Strands of dark hair tumble before the slender curve of your bust, masking the hardness of your small, pink nipples.
Seeing yourself, standing here naked...you realize how aroused you've been all day as you slide your mauve panties down your waist and strings of sexual fluids stick between your thighs. Your bright, pink vulva is flushed with excitement, blushing with the delicate but full shape of your lips...you can see it clearly just standing and looking at yourself. Your long, Elfin fingers drift down over the trimmed, short hair covering your mound and you find your juices are incredibly slick, hot, your own scent heady. Your fingers run smoothly through your vulva and it feels
amazing
, and when you look at them they're shining wet. Your contacts list pops up in your head - a few people who could potentially be booty-called to your place for a quick fuck, but at the back of your mind you constantly see
him
