This is a drabble I was working on a little whiles back as a possibility for the Darkella contest. I just unearthed it today, and am thinking of turning it into a novella – maybe.
He stirs.
The light seems to burn his closed eyelids. In the back of his mind, warning bells are going off, because did he really drink that much yesterday? The thoughts are foggy and half-formed, though, and he reaches up to rub his eyes open.
There is a tug at his side. His hand doesn’t move from where it is pressed against the mattress – uncovered, no sheets for his fingers to yank at in his sudden moment of panic. His limbs feel achy, restless, pins and needles rushing up and down his veins.
There is nothing to suggest paralysis, injury; anything that could explain his immobility, the fact that though he struggles – like a beetle attempting to turn itself back over and regain its bearings – nothing happens.
“Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty.”
The voice is low, husky, and feminine in a way that reminds him of tequila shots and dim bar lights. There is a movement at his side, the heady aroma of freesia and sweat before he feels lips pressed against his bare shoulder.
“You’ve been holding out on me for a long time. It isn’t nice to keep a lady waiting.”
She moves away.
His eyes fly open.
The room seems to swim around him. It is overwhelming, the fluorescent light making the walls, the furniture, and the pale face that sits before him smiling invitingly, all glisten like fresh snow. He closes them again, but in that moment he has seen enough to know that he is in his bedroom; and that the girl perched on the edge of his mattress is a stranger.
She laughs. There is something unnerving in the sound, chilling, and he wants to ask her why she is here, in his room, in his house on the fringe of civilization – isolated, forgotten, his oubliette outside of the world.
“That’s my fault. I put you on the good stuff. Helps with the unconsciousness, but it gives you a bit of a hangover the morning after.”
He finally manages to open his eyes. She isn’t what he was expecting when he heard that voice. She is small, paper-white and nearly as thin, wrapped in a blood red hoodie that seems to engulf her form. Snarled brown hair curls around her ears.
A dim recollection tugs at the back of his mind, but he cannot put his finger on it.
“W-who are you?”
His voice is hoarse with disuse. He vaguely remembers too much to drink, threatening to be thrown out. Small fingers wrapped around his forearm, a shot pressed into his hands, a pale body underneath his, head thrown back, screaming in ecstasy.
He feels sick.
She cocks her head to the side, smiles at him as though he’s a child that has said something rather cute.
“I’m your worst nightmare,” she says, as easily as though she is introducing herself at a cocktail party, voice sure and firm and serious.
It is then that he sees the blade between her fingers. She twists it, back and forth, and in the flood of light it glistens menacingly. He cannot take his eyes off it, off her, even as the realization throbs through his brain like the blood swelling uncomfortably in his fingers, as he yanks at his bindings and realizes that he is restrained against the bed, that he is completely naked and there is no one to scream for, no one to come and rescue him.
She can read it all in his eyes, and her eyes glow as a smirk curls up her lips. She knows the defeat that crashes over him, drowns him in fear and desperation – and shame, shame that he could not see this coming.
“Y – you’re making a mistake,” he stammers, his voice halting, tongue twisting. He remembers another girl who shared this bed, a single night’s mistake, legs bound and a high voice in his ear: You’re nothing like I expected.
You’re nothing like any of them expected.
He remembers stuffing the pillow in her mouth, watching her lips pressing again and again against the white fabric – a desperate kiss, like the ways her nails scrabbled against his skin, tearing and rending. He hated her voice, her touch, and he pressed the pillow down, watching as her mouth went limp and her eyes glazed over.
She has moved, taking advantage of his clouded faculties, the dawning panic spreading over his face. She straddles him, giggling, the blade grazing up his chest to rest against his bobbing throat. She is on top of his cock, and he hates that even in this situation he can get hard.
He hates the look she gives him, triumphant, eyebrow raised – pitying, condescending.
Utterly disgusted.
“Again? I’m flattered that you even have the stamina left. But,” and her voice drops and her eyes flicker, “then again, I’m pretty sure that you don’t remember what happened last night.”
He watches her, eyes darting wildly from the blade slowly cutting into his tanned flesh, to the half-lidded gaze, the heavy stare of a snake as it eyes its unsuspecting prey, gauging it before it opens its mouth and swallows it whole.
“Please,” he mouths. His tongue is dry, and he fears that if he speaks the words aloud, he will choke. “Please.”
Her eyes soften. She brushes her free hand through his hair, and his eyes close as he feels her hand, palming his hard-on – sickening and satisfying and seductive.
“Poor baby,” she coos against his cheek. “That must be painful – especially for you.”
He can feel the scaled tail winding around his legs. His mind is a clouded numbness. He can no longer feel his hands, or feet.
He wonders if the other girls felt the same way.
“Don’t worry,” she breathes against his mouth. Her lips brush against his, and his eyes roll back as her hand presses harder, just enough to make him forget. “I’ll be gentle.”
