. bad flesh

[kitty smith-sato]

Her consciousness slips for a moment, her eyes fluttering shut though not fully, the whites visible through her lashes. It's a good thing she eschewed makeup today since it would be sliding from her face, sweat like condensation against the pallor of her skin. Her Egyptian cotton sheets are splattered with blood and soaked under the spot where she sits. Would she ask the housekeeper to try and spot treat them, only so she could see the look of horror on her face when she brandished the bundle, looking like a cheap Halloween decoration. If she dared to raise it with her dads, she'd simply put it down to it being her time of the month. Skin contact and she jolts back to life, his very own Frankenstein's monster. She moans and it's impossible to tell if it's in pain or ecstasy, her body completely overloaded with sensations and unable to distinguish them itself. Soon an occasion would roll around that would force her to confront this moment of madness. She would go to put on one of her usual teeny tiny bikinis and be confronted by those three letters, or she would be stripping off her clothes for another man, one who'd surely take an interest in who the acronym belonged to and wouldn't need much prompting to figure it out. But here and now, it feels like the best idea she's ever had. "Yours," she repeats, eyes fluttering open. They kiss and when they pull apart she regards him with heavy lidded eyes, more vulnerable than she's ever been in her life, weak in body and in spirit. Her body burns with pain but also with an aching longing, her imagination conjuring up images of her slipping into his lap, him slipping into her... she's wet and not just from the blood, her underwear soaked. "Well I'm already bleeding," she mumbles, the room behind him spinning though he stays still, resolute. "But you need to finish what you started, before I pass out."

[dominic vinten cuvo]

She is already a masterpiece: curves he studied for years, yearned for, memorized with sight and touch alike. The concavity of her pelvis, the narrow of her waist, the stretch of her legs. At present he is entranced by the heave of her chest, the micromovements of the expressions she tried to school into submission, much like he was doing to her now. This possession was unlike any other, achieved by no one else because no one could hope to pry them apart long enough to last. He knows there have been…attempts, if he allows his mind to wander and conjure faces he despises, but the dark truth is that she is as depraved and sick as him, the reason they understood each other so well, cut from the same cloth. Cut cut cut. Like he’s whittling her away, tiny flexes of his wrist allowing for the shape to come alive before his manic gaze, having shed his loupes, offended that there was something between his eyes and her skin. Wanting no barriers of any kind, quite literally looking inside her, wishing to squelch himself deeper into her flesh, climb the column of her spine like a ladder and slither into the recesses of her mind to settle with the very essence of her being. What might he find up there in the grey matter? First, begging the question how could she suggest this to him knowing his desire to hurt her, specifically, inviting out all the parts of him that played in the dark. And like that, he has finished. Gleefully he bites his lip, admiring his handiwork, red letters screaming at him from her glistening pale skin. The scalpel dances between his fingers, twirling over his knuckles before swiping at the wound with some alcohol, looking up at her in sweet anticipation of this new pain. He has half a mind to push the blunt end of the scalpel into her, fuck her with the same instrument that marred her. Instead he flits the blade against the band of her panties, then the other, until the triangle of lace fell away, and he could see just how much she enjoyed this. “What do you think?” he asked, squeezing the outsides of the wound until it wept more for him, chuckling as he laid his cheek down to catch it, nuzzling into the liquid before moving his mouth to where she wanted him most, finally willing her pleasure.

[kitty smith-sato]

So this was what it felt like to quiet the inner monologue. For once Kitty's mind wasn't teeming with schemes and next moves, only oscillating between titillation and aguish, faint from blood loss. For someone so avoidant of fragility, Kitty was fragile in every possible way now, and Dominic was the only person on Earth she would allow herself to be this way around. It was counterintuitive, really, letting herself be vulnerable with someone she knew desired deeply to hurt her, a fact that was reaffirmed by the barely disguised glee on his face right this very second. And yet she knew it would be worth it, a moment of agony that would seal them together ever tighter, a bond no one could ever hope to compete with. It's becoming more difficult to tell when she's being sliced into, the pain mounting to a constant agony with or without active insertion of a scalpel. If this had been a torture session (and wasn't it?) this would have been the point where she would have confessed to anything. She's barely aware of the noises she's making, squirming weakly under him, writhing and moaning in near delirium. A small cry as it's swabbed, a stinging sensation distinct and additive to the rest of her pain.  It's a tremendous effort to sit up but she does so, albeit sluggishly. The wound is worse than she remembers from seconds before, her vision blurred as he squeezes it, making her whimper. Tears drop onto her thighs. "It's very... neat," she manages to offer, her voice sounding like it was coming from somewhere else. Barely aware of what he's doing, she comes crashing back into her corporeal reality as his face is buried between her thighs, another moan slipping out of her lips as she buried her hand in his hair. Finding the strength to guide him exactly where she wanted him, her back arching to press herself against his tongue. "Fuck, I'm so close," she says, disbelief evident in her voice. "Dom, baby, fuck."

[dominic vinten cuvo]

There’s a thin line between love and hate. Razor thin, as it turns out, perhaps the width of a scalpel that glints in the light, wielded by the hands of a madman. What was it about her that he wanted to destroy…the feigned innocence she perpetuated, her preoccupation with other men and effortless seduction of them? Perhaps how intelligent she is, how driven, how ostensibly loved? These were tedious, useless answers to a mind like Dominic’s, compelled more by the simple fact that there are things she would do for him that no one else has, would, or ever will. It’s what he liked the most, bending people to his will, coercing them into things they didn’t want to do or words they didn’t want to say. The drug of power, playing with peoples’ lives. And now she had placed hers in his hands. A better doctor would worry that he was losing his patient. But he is no doctor at all, unconcerned with her vital signs or mortal comfort, something warm pooling low within him watching her body contort before him. It’s as close to a religious experience as he could achieve, half wishing he had the foresight to do this little procedure on a grand altar. Suddenly he wants stained glass and thick robes and organ music, a public worship of his sacrifice. But he is a generous god, a forgiving god, who rewards his lamb’s searing pain with blinding pleasure. His hands lock with a punishing grip over top her thighs, lapping greedily at her with a merciless tongue, mouth and chin coated by her and saliva and blood when he comes up for air. Dominic groaned at the bite of her fingernails against his scalp, following the desperate urge of her hips, teasing her against the blunt of his nose and spreading her open with his fingertips. Giving herself to him once more as blood still cried from her wound waiting to be dried and wrapped to heal, a stinging, breathing reminder that they were not quite finished. But he intends to wring her of pleasure, humming against her as she bucked and fluttered, whispering praises as she settled. The flat of his tongue dragged along her, collecting this mess they’ve made with a vulgar slurping sound, crawling up her body to tilt down her chin and spit the mixture into her mouth. “Taste how good you are.”

[kitty smith-sato]

Kitty's very existence was testament to female sacrifice for male benefit, Gia having willingly donated her postpartum body to the service of growing life for her friends. A wild act of allyship that, in Kitty's opinion, paled in comparison to what she was doing here, far more grotesque and, frankly, perverse. To host a child you had nothing to genetically to do with, welcoming a parasite that would make your body stretch, your ankles swell, your hair follicles loosen and could even transform her facial features... it was beyond contemplation. What were three little letters when compared to nine months of disfigurement? There was no horror more severe to Kitty than pregnancy, who had a hysterectomy at the top of her list of desired surgeries.  The reality was that the cost of this act of selflessness was higher than just Gia's physique, though she nor Carter nor Kota could have known that at the time. Bonding their children to each other, "siblings" who shared no genetic material, so close in age that they were almost twins. If only people could more easily see through the facades they each presented to the world, there could be scientific breakthroughs unlocked between the two, a true study of nature vs nurture. How had two individuals grown to have such different but complimentary tastes, tastes that would repulse the average person? This is one of the times Kitty adores their similarities, and not only because she's orgasming hard on his face, her head thrown back as the most intense pleasure she's felt intertwines with the sharpest pain. An unholy cocktail is baby birded into her mouth and she's disgusted and turned on in equal measure, copper and an organic tang coating her mouth as she drinks it down, dripping down her chin. It's a cacophony of sensation she knows she's unlikely to ever experience again and it's made her something she never is: impulsive. Pressing against him, feeling how rock hard he is and moaning into his mouth as she kisses him sloppily, her whole left leg numb now. "I love you," she says when she catches her breath enough to be able to. Suddenly her mind swims with images of Henry, her wedding dress, the band she for once eschewed wearing. Woozy, she physically tries to shrug the thoughts away, speaking softly. "I'm sorry Dominic, I shouldn't have done it... wasn't thinking...so dumb..."

[dominic vinten cuvo]

Warm and metallic, it stains his skin if he rubs it between his fingertips, watching it transfer back to her skin where he grips her, leaving rusty broken prints. The heady scent of her blood combined with the proximity of the source is an intoxicating aphrodisiac crumbling Dominic’s restraint, palming himself through his pants, still in hot pursuit of his own pleasure on the tail-end of her pain. Feasting on her like an impatient cannibal, a lascivious orchestra of tongue and teeth and lips into the apex of her thighs, barely letting up even as she’s spent and on the brink of painful overstimulation, an edge he will gladly drag her over. They are already so close to another precipice, more so than ever before. There is a strange reverence in his brutality, hoping to leave welts and broken capillaries where he handled her, imagining dragging his fingernails across her wound or putting his mouth over it to scour his initials with his tongue. Violent flashes of fantasies still burning the edges of his imagination, Dom tossing away the scalpel before he got any other ideas. Grabbing her face with gloved hands, devouring her in a debauched kiss of fluids slicking both their faces, tugging the natural leash of her hair to adjust the slotting of their mouths. He’s hovering off to her opposite side not out of consideration of her wound but so that he may always see it in the corner of his eye, glancing down at the livid scores that bore his name and reminded him she was his for the taking. Even if the skin tried to fill in and regenerate itself, his legacy would be remembered several layers deep, unable to rid herself of the memory. Of course Dom knows he still needs to clean and bandage the girl for good, prolonging that end with, as usual, his own needs in mind. Choke her, bite her, fill her—test her more. He peels off the gloves and tosses them over the bed’s edge, just now taking in the art they’ve made on her sheets, the streaks and spots like a grisly Rorschach test he thinks should be pinned on a canvas. But Kitty is fading, it seems, Dominic watching her thin eyelids flutter, a sweet phrase escaping her that lifted his lips with a euphoric smile. “What is it, my love?” he asked, half confused and half distracted from it anyway, her words so soft and lost in a voice that seemed to be coming from somewhere else inside her. “I’m right here, angel. You’re going to be ok.”

[kitty smith-sato]

For the first time since it was first put on Kitty pays attention to the music, attuning to the haunting chanting and using it to block out the overwhelming sensation that was currently pummelling her body to jelly. As camp as it was for Dominic to have put it on, it lets her think about church, Sunday mass still a trapping of an affectation she was diligently committed to. Rosaries and kneeled prayers, her mouth feeling as dry as a communion wafer though her body is soaked by this point, sweat and blood and more besides leaving her skin slippery. Able to conjure the smell of frankincense and myrrh, picturing the smoke as it billowed upwards from the thurible. She should have got incense.  It's her only regret thus far, though her nerve endings are fried and she instinctively presses away from him— not that it makes a difference. He continues to ravage her and it's the first time she's fully understood what that word meant, to cause severe and extensive damage, almost making her laugh at how flippantly it was used in romantic novels. Quite against her will she cums again, using up a reserve of energy she didn't know she has, probably doesn't have, her whole body rocking with a pleasure so severe it makes her cry again, yet another bodily fluid with which to drench herself.  Gloved hands on her face and somehow she's still turned on, though her core hurts as much as her open wound. She shakes her head softly, opening her eyes back up and looking at him, taking in his blood streaked face. How she loved looking at him up close. "Bandage me up," she mumbles, already forgetting her own dazed non-confession. She pulls him down for another kiss, slowed by her own lethargy, her limbs feeling heavy. "Get me one bandage and one glass of water, I might just have sex with you after all."

[dominic vinten cuvo]

What he hated most about Kitty was her closeness to him, how well she knew him—and despite it all, she never left, whereas most others would have run away screaming. She was a walking manifestation of all his secrets and workings, proof of parts of him that were not meant to proliferate—not out in the open, anyway, but still tugged at his consciousness with the same claws as addiction. But she did not do this freely, of course; she used these as tokens with which to barter and threaten, spaces on the chess board to gain later on, capitalize on his vulnerabilities. His only relief came in knowing she was party to it, too, like being an accomplice to her own destruction absolved him from his desire for it. He nuzzles into the cavities of her collarbone and the tiny puddles that had gathered in them, wishing he could shrink himself down and swim in the rivulets. Tracing the stretch of tendons and muscles in her neck, imagining her as a vivid anatomy diagram, mapping the chords of her carotid and jugular before her throat moved with her voice again. He obliges, collecting a glass of water and extending it to her, something for her to grip while he tended to her second request. Riding an aftershock of her pain for his satisfaction, another swipe of alcohol against the anguished skin, the slow settling of gauze that he taped down on either end with room to spare. He already missed the sight of it, his new curiosity lying in whether it would weep enough to trace his initials through the white mesh. Lying next to her again, he studied the destruction of her body from this new angle, rutting himself against her side, still aching and in need. “Oh Kitty,” he breathed, mouthing at the skin nearest his reach. “You don’t know how long I’ve dreamed of this,” he lamented of their little ceremony, dismayed that it was over but thrilled by the knowledge it was on her for someone else to find. His thumb brushed circles below the wrapping and its fraught sensitivity, dancing across the depression of her stomach, tracing the barely-there curvature of her slim thighs toward her center. He sighed a pained sound against her breast, shivering with need. “If you don’t touch me I think I might kill myself.”

[kitty smith-sato]

She's writing checks she's not sure she can cash. Her faux virginity was an essential part of her idea of herself, no less important to her for being untrue. An enduring ruse through the years, always her play for getting out of the teasing games she would play with both of the boys in her sordid friendship circle, a chastity belt she wore mostly for them. But right now she wants a glass of water more than she's ever wanted anything, her tongue sticking to the backs of her teeth, her throat providing another ache to add to the extensive list she already had on the go. Water would save her, would restore her to full health like a video game character and then she'd be able to think about her next move. Kitty drinks the water down slowly at first, then gulping it down in greedy mouthfuls, spilling it out of the corners of her lips. She watches him work, inhaling sharply as another swab of alcohol further agitates the angry slashes. Once wrapped she feels more confident that maybe she won't die after all. Her plan has worked, hydration and the pause it took to deliver it letting some of her senses spark back to life, bruised but pushing through it. Her head is still spinning but her thoughts are joining up again, particularly that all important link between action and consequence. His panting and pawing thrills her, a morsel of control restored to her as she hesitates to make good on her offer. This is a line that's harder for her to cross. In all of their teasing and their taunts, she had never actually touched him, not directly, with intent. His hands roam and she shudders under his touch. His desire for her was no secret but what was less acknowledged was her reciprocal lust for him, suppressed as it was by her iron will. "Actually I do know." Is this what the archetypical girl on prom night felt, weighing her longing against her fear that she might be giving something away that she could never get back? Her body betrays her, her hand reaching down and wrapping around his dick before she's decided what's best. "You're so hard," she purrs, curling into him, running her tongue from the nape of his neck up behind his ear, which she then whispers into as her hand starts its slow pump. "The real question is, do you think you deserve it?"

[dominic vinten cuvo]

Years of innuendo, flirtation, salacious promises (or threats) coming to a head despite his loss of this most recent bet. Ages of touching themselves side by side, moaning over the phone, sending pictures and videos of themselves in the act. Discussing fluids and fantasies and porn histories, all while maintaining the charade of Kitty’s virginity when it suited them to pretend there was something for him to vie for. An elusive purpose for his otherwise listless, jaded existence, faithfully returning to the goal of claiming her this way. All but planning their marriage while testing loopholes around her apparent restrictions, a game they never tired of, this perpetual edging. And yet another thing Dominic refused to deeply examine, instead preferring the version of reality he had crafted, filling in the gaps of his memory he himself made. Even now, touching her with the expectation that plying her into submission could still get him his way, never willing to accept defeat because in life he could talk or wink or lie his fault out of most things. So privileged that punishment was such a foreign concept he had to source it sexually instead, playing with the idea in the bedroom while never experiencing it in the real world. It’s now that he feels the exchange of power shift between them since he’s finished his project, the bandage like a brief white flag between them before she would take over, his pleasure quite literally in her hands. He shudders at the feel of her grasp, clammy and slight as the life seemed to gradually return to her, like she was sustained by this hold over him. His head swims irretrievably, as if the trail she tongues up his neck reaches his brain and drowns it, blood sounding furiously in his ears. As if she were holding a knife to him now, the tides of his violence ebbing to the flood of her control, reversing the balance once more. Unabashedly reactive around her, easily aroused by a glance or tone when she wanted him to be—and even better, when he shouldn’t be. But it’s new territory this time, the actual clash of their bare skin, experimenting with every iteration over the years except for the real thing. He nods desperately against her, nudging down the layers to bare himself to her. "Yes," he answered with a grit, displaying his neck for her continued attention. She could slash him open right here and he would enjoy the warm bath of his own death. "Please Kitty."

[kitty smith-sato]

Ahead of his arrival Kitty had run through a million different versions of how this could play out, sprawling narratives where sometimes she died, sometimes they were caught by her dads, other, less likely eventualities where Dom chickened out or never even showed up at all. Parallel universes where the pain was too much and she tapped out, certainly a very different reality from theirs since she knew him well enough to know that he would never prioritise her comfort over his gratification. She'd mapped out plans for the versions of reality where they kissed, but she had made a rare miss in failing to identify a qualifying factor that had since come to be; she had never considered that she would be this fucking horny for him. There had been plenty of times where their flirtation had left her yearning for him but it had been her prerogative to resolve this in ways that gave him no benefit, channeling it into encounters with other, more disposable men or just washing it away with an ice cold shower. But this whole experience had teetered between being the most torturous and the most erotic of her life, perhaps not helped by how much she had fantasised over the years of him taking her by force, the only way she had previously been able to imagine this constant back and forth ending in an outcome that was satisfying to both parties. But god it feels good to see him shudder under her touch, to trail kisses along his exposed neck and hear his breathing shift with each fleeting contact. He's exposed and though she's seen him naked a million times, that couldn't be more different to now, his erection looking huge in her hand, smeared in the blood that was helping to lubricate her teasing. She wants to slide down it so desperately, to be able to watch his face as she does, to consummate this momentous occasion. If not now, when? And if not now, wouldn't the push and pull lose all its power anyway? He'd never believe her again, and the teasing depended on the idea that one day it could, no— would happen, an inevitability. But wouldn't he lose all interest in her forever once that reality happened anyway? Trying to quiet the voices in her head that were usually orderly, she kisses him hard on the mouth. "You got to taste me, so..." She releases him for a moment just so she can reposition herself between his legs, running her tongue up the length of his shaft teasingly before looking up at him. "Do you want it baby?"

[dominic vinten cuvo]

Kitty was his longest, truest pursuit. Years of explicit sexual adventures left him yearning for more, his tastes shifting to the more risqué, more challenging, more off-limits. An easy power to step into, he learned, with the combination of his looks, status, and occasional charm. Going through people like a check list, a sprawling menu of gender, sexuality, race, age on which to feast. But lack of resistance leads to boredom. In the end, once that chase was over, almost none managed to stick afterward. It was as if having them rendered them useless to him, no longer interesting or worthwhile. A movie plot figured out after the climax, not bothering to stick around for the resolution, already underwhelmed by the anticipated end. All roads lead to sex and power. Women tended to be slighter in body but complex in mind, more of a mental than physical endeavor. So jealous he was of their mental fortitude and superpower-like ability to achieve multiple orgasms. On the other hand, men were simple and oafish, but behind them was the strength he liked to brutalize. It was a fight from which he sourced illusions of control and superiority that felt rewarding. Perhaps his upbringing by femmes and queer folks shaped these leanings, where women were to dominate and men were to be dominated. But Kitty was entirely different…somehow an amalgamation of everything, tinged with their complicated births and family arrangements, walking so many blurry lines in their history that she was the ultimate overlapping prize. To hurt her but then heal her, to have her but then also give himself in return, something that could only seem to end in a great cataclysm…or a disappointing sigh. The previous hour of Kitty’s suffering already seems like a lifetime ago once she coaxes him in her hand. Dom should think it was an act, all her pitiable sounds and movements like she was dying, only to spring back to life at the opportunity to deny and abuse him now. But the thought it quickly banished with the roll of his eyes into his head, already feeling so utterly undone after aching for her this whole time. His only regret is not carving a hole in her leg that he could fuck first. How exquisite it is to look down and see her at the crux of his thighs, truly trading positions, surrendering to the grip she had on his length and the hot hover of her mouth. “Yes, yes Kitty,” he stammers to her question, his voice withering so pathetically that he wished she would focus her hand on his throat and crush his windpipe altogether. He reaches down to palm the side of her beautiful face, gathering a handful of her hair until silky black threads spilled out from between his knuckles. "I do," he says, an easy vow, for the better or worse of her mouth.

[kitty smith-sato]

A wicked thought flitters through Kitty's mind, as wicked thoughts were wont to do. The crime of planning a party in Violet's honour and purposefully excluding her was not one she had absolved Dom for, always lurking at the back of her mind when she had interacted with him since, especially egregious as it was for following his absence from her life. She had not taken his short lived attempt at independence well, spending the weekend in question lying on this very bed, staring up at the ceiling and fantasising about all the ways she could ruin him. She had made herself quite unwell, eschewing food (nothing new there) and point blank refusing to leave the room, even when her dads invited her to visit Gia with them (now that was very new). She could wreak her revenge now, get him to the absolute brink and pull back. Kick him out and suggest he call Violet to finish him off. It's a tempting thought, but one that she won't act on. A textbook sexual submissive, she had to admit there was something exhilarating in exerting this kind of control over someone, though she'd likely never recreate this dynamic with anyone else. No, it's the history between them that makes it so delicious for her. A near lifetime of build up, paired with his usual impassivity, the role reversal one she derives immense satisfaction from. A succubus, literally revived by his sexual suffering. "Poor thing," she pouts dramatically at the weakness in his voice. She shrugs off her blood soaked robe, using her free hand to easily unclip her bra and shake this off too. Completely naked, her body is thrumming with pain and sadistic excitement. Her mouth takes over the work her hand had started, taking him deep into her throat and still lapping at him with her tongue, a salty layer of precum and metallic blood enveloping her tastebuds and making her moan against him. Her head bobs as she works him, hands on his thighs and letting her nails dig into his skin. It's the act of someone who was very obviously not a virgin and keen to prove it, the act resigned to a now closed chapter. It doesn't do to dwell on what might come next, not when he's making the most carnal noises she's ever heard.

[dominic vinten cuvo]

This still felt like a fantasy, a dream, a hallucination. Dominic wondered if he was actually lying in a bathtub somewhere, high out of his mind (even for him), knocking on death’s front door. Another morbid fascination of his was people in their dying moments or amid near-death experiences, many claiming to see dead loved ones, spiritual figures, a depiction of Biblical heaven. It would be fitting that he’d conjure images of Kitty, both his god and his devil—and deciding his fate, whether she’d drag him to the pearly gates or down into the fiery pits. She had the choice now, even, probably running calculations in her head of his deserving of an orgasm versus how much more she could get out of him if she denied him. But he loves to whine and writhe for her, leaning into her control now, all while trying to bite his tongue from giving up words too damning: I’ll do anything, I'm yours. The vision of her in her almost childlike bedroom—her creamy skin smeared with blood and hair like a cloak of shadows—is enough to make his other fist strain against the sheets. His eyes were drowsy with lust as he twitched in her mouth, meeting her halfway hoping for tears and gags and strained air, mind still rife with rapid frames of him pulling her up, pinning her down, taking her and knowing she secretly wanted it. Ripped between fantasy and the present, pulled back in by the hollow of her cheeks and the velvet of her tongue, manicure digging in his thighs, breasts freed from gravity. The buildup, the surprise, the toxins ever-present in his blood rush over him. If this had been his first experience it would have irrevocably broken him. His gaze pans to the ceiling, delirious from the blood lost from his brain to his groin, feeling like he might pass out too. “Fuck, I’m so close,” he warned with half of her name, feeling that familiar coil in his belly wind and wind, like a Jack-in-the-box waiting to spring free. An unholy sound rips through his chest, expression slackening as the rest of him tensed and emptied. His fists tingling from having gone white in her hair and the sheets, ragged breaths hiccuping into laughs of disbelief. If he was dying, this was the time for his soul to be reaped—though they’d be sorely mistaken to think he had one to collect. “Bite me. Hard. I want to be marked now.”

[kitty smith-sato]

The trope of women killing abusive men mid fuck makes sense to her. Even the tallest, broadest, strongest men could be reduced to this vulnerable state, eyes closed, head tilted back to expose their throat. She seals the mental image of Dom's pretty, chiseled face caught in ecstasy away, one to revisit later. To dissect. To extrapolate. Visions of climbing on top of him, taking her deep inside herself and riding him to the edge, only to slide open his throat at the last minute. The jugular vein spurting blood cartoonishly, her very own fountain, coating her like Carrie though his would still be warm. Whilst there were traits and interests that seemed to spawn independently in each of them with a strange semi-sibling synchronicity, there was no doubting that the proclivity for violence was a Dom Trait™ that she had been infected with. Once crossed it was difficult to go back to ordinary tastes, and Kitty in particular had a wealth of inspiration for morbid fantasies from her lifelong interest in graphic body horror films. She was interested in what the human body could do, how much it could withstand, though this was something she tended to turn inwardly. It fascinated her that she could eat, throw up and then keep living, like some sort of infinite glitch that had outwitted the human need for sustenance. Of course this was not true, her cheeks on the verge of turning gaunt, an alarming amount of hair left on the brush when she combed it through. Issues for another day. Right now she feels like a goddess. One of the evil ones, an archetype through different cultures and mythologies; Samhara Kali, Sekhmet,  Coatlicue. She can feel his body tense and it feeds her complex, the noises he's making set against the deep chanting another memory she files away, knowing this to be a formative experience even as it's happening. In a way it actually feels like she's losing her virginity, crossing a line that meant just as much to her. She swallows thickly, running her thumb across her bottom lip to catch her saliva. Crawling up to perch on top of him, a cheshire grin spreads across her face at his request. A brief consideration of where will be the most satisfying to sink her teeth. Predictably she goes for the nape of his neck, biting down hard into the soft skin where it meets his shoulder, moaning as her teeth meet tendon resistance. She presses on. When she parts the mark is red and angry.  "You look different."