. bad flesh

[dominic vinten cuvo]

If Dominic could cum a second time, he would’ve once her teeth sank into his vulnerable neck. His toes curl and his throat vibrates with a dark chuckle that turned into a rasped groan, his erection refusing to lessen, almost renewed by the tipping point of pleasure into pain. His fingertips dug into her bony hips, sure to leave bruises, partly desperate to pry her off yet resolved to keep her latched on. Imagining Kitty as a formidable serpent, unhinging her jaw to swallow him whole, not unlike the most important part of him earlier. He doesn’t care to think where she’d learned these skills or whom on, seeing only her, Them, briefly and dangerously as one. Their beautiful, intoxicating dysfunction he would gladly kill for or be killed during. It's a sin they’ve committed, their greatest secret yet—and still evinced for anyone to see, if they looked. No doubt she would cover hers with a bandage and innocently claim a new tattoo, while Dominic would wear collared shirts and savor the scrape of fabric against the scalloped edges of raw skin. At the thought he pulls her frame down onto his chest, slick with sweat and god knows what else, a scent rising in the room of salt and metal and musk. There is no modesty needed so he doesn’t bother to reach for the sheet, instead casting his eyes down at the patterns they’ve made, a depraved flag of their debauchery. Their bodies the tools, their fluids the media. “I think I’m going to open an art gallery,” he mused, fingering the edges of a stripe of blood. “No...these belong in a museum. Or a place of worship.” Often Dom waxed poetic about the portraits and busts he would make of her had his ancestors gifted him the talent of art rather than a penchant for studying it. But he’s satisfied with their work here tonight, squeezing her close, eyelids drowsy with satiation. If anything he should fear the real thing, wondering what full consumption might do to his psyche, what kind of monster would render afterward. He swipes at the edge of his own wound, excited by the smear of red that comes back into his vision, sampled along his lip. His fingers combed lazily through her hair, sapped of everything, maybe even the will to live. “I don’t think I could exist without you,” he sighs, kissing the top of her head.