10 LITTLE PILL (M/F dark-erotica) PUBLIC
I never want to be that small again. On her back, Heather stared at the translucent ceiling for what felt like a biblical age. Time felt curiously elastic, as though it had stretched across multiple generational lifespans. It felt impossible for all of that to happen, as it did, 3 days ago on the marble table. Could all of that happen in one night? Had it? It had felt like their encounter had unfolded on the head of a pin. How had she been able to get so far - so far - outwitting, outlasting, outsexing her divided devil - for decades it seemed - only to contract back down into Thumbelina and ride the pendulum, once again, back to the start?Swallow Me, Like Your Little Pill--- A female pill addict tries to vainly outwit, outlast, outsex a violent demonic "monster." Because he prefers his pills lady-shaped.This is a visceral dark-erotica novel that goes way beyond the vampire bite. Warning/Promise: Sexting; Vore-texting (vexting?); chilling, mature; horror; sadomasochism implications; vorarephilic; mental carousel; lore; predator/prey relationship; sadistic proclamations10My Pills, My Priestess, My DemonFINALE PART 1 OF 3 HEATHER3 Days LaterI never want to be that small again. On her back, Heather stared at the translucent ceiling for what felt like a biblical age. Time felt curiously elastic, as though it had stretched across multiple generational lifespans. It felt impossible for all of that to happen, as it did, 3 days ago on the marble table. Could all of that happen in one night? Had it? It had felt like their encounter had unfolded on the head of a pin. How had she been able to get so far - so far - outwitting, outlasting, outsexing her divided devil - for decades it seemed - only to contract back down into Thumbelina and ride the pendulum, once again, back to the start? It’s like I’m in my own personal hell. My own personal pit and the pendulum. Tears pricked her eyes. And now I’m stuck and that dick-swinging pendulum is going to pulverize me. At this point it was almost laughable. Would Heather be able to return to normal? Could she? How could she when the knife slid with an unctuous thrust into Joseph? When Tammy splintered between his teeth? (An auditory spectacle he had shared over the phone, held to his face). The phone that was now held to her face: Danny’s phone. She looked at it in quiet, peaking awe; like it was a venerated relic. It felt - God. Holding his phone made her heart pound. What would she find in there? What secrets did it hold? She tapped her fingernails against the screen, feeling like a spiteful Pandora. How am I gonna unlock this damn thing. It was only through her own nimble mental craft she had managed to distract him from the knowledge of its absence over the ensuing 3 days – which had sprightly come and gone, ejecting her into today. It buzzed and a notification rolled across the screen. The pre-board itinerary for a flight that was landing in an airport in a different time zone. She knew this because she could see the conversion in the margin. Heather counted on her fingers. Europe, maybe. The rest of the message, because it sat on the locked screen, remained stubbornly truncated. And it was just like this, the last few days, she stared at his cell phone, observing his life as it trickled through in a slow, tantalizing drip. But so far, nothing had materialized to demystify the – conversational exchange? – that had transpired 3 days ago; a conversation that had driven him to distraction; a conversation that had driven him to insanity; a conversation that had compelled him to mentally stumble around her diminished state. Unless, hmm, it was the trip itself that had been the root of the problem? It had sprung up rather suddenly. On day 2, she remembered him slinking into the kitchen, informing her he’d be out of town; leaving a peace-making Starbucks; kissing her on the top of her head; then leaving. And the normalcy – the domesticity – of that moment had stunned her. It was like they were together again. But as tender and intimate as that moment had been, it still wasn’t powerful enough to wash away what had happened in the eruptive liminal bang of the glass jar: languishing in salivary bondage, fingers twined around her diminished body as glimpses of his red, rough mouth flickered. It was a feeling she would never forget: being small and dispossessed, drowning in his size. She got onto her hands and knees, slipping his phone into her pocket. She couldn’t reconcile her thoughts, so she tried to outpace them. However, staying a judicious step before her thoughts had the effect, apparently, of inuring her to her environment, because it wasn’t until she felt the pellets striking her back did she realize she had — like a sleepwalker — abscond of the living room and stumble into the wet room. The shower soaked her. She hated that she moved with such ease, that she moved with such knowledge inside his home. Granted, it was beautiful and well-appointed. It was an open-floor plan divided by panes of glass that sequestered the woods by a thin, condensing breath. The rooms were crowned by high, lofty architectural ceilings which were bracketed by long wooden cross beams that were fashioned, also, underfoot in warm pines; thematic reprisal continued, varnishing the wall molding, marrying broad, geometric staircases to recessed lofts. When it snowed, it was a wonder. Heather remembered watching the snowstorms roll through while tucked in the arms of her divided devil. Nothing could disturb their placidity from within the magnificent grand room, which abutted the wet room, the former anchored by open-faced fireplaces; one was outfitted with digital flames that rotated through fluorescent colors. Baroque paintings daubed the walls; some depicting prohibitively erotic artwork. A vase, one in each corner, sat sumptuously, bearing intricately designed gold-embossed figurines. Once upon a time, she had treated his wealth as she did the water from the shower: allowing it to roll from her possession with little thought and little consequence, and, certainly, with little interrogation into its source because it was pleasant and comforting, but not hers to hold – but, now, she felt irked by it. Why couldn’t it be her? It was once, wasn’t it? Heather meditated on the porcelain tiles of the wet room, watching with a sort of disconnected stupor as the water streamed away from her, toward the terra-cotta perimeter, creating a waist-high tide that, should she exit the shower stall, serve as a borderless bath. Once, this had been a source of pleasure for her. Now, it felt vaguely unsettling and perplexing, like being entombed. His entire home made her feel anxious. Because she had lived in it once before; and to it she returned again. And she remembered how she had felt, back then, first walking into his home. It was not unlike the farmer’s daughter entering the king’s castle. But, even then, it had been clear he hadn’t been born with a silver spoon in his mouth (no, Danny put other things in his mouth) nor cosseted by an unwieldy trust fund, so there had been something remarkably relatable about him. And that accessibility had prevented him from feeling woefully unreachable and pretentious. In fact, she had been certain, from the context clues she had pieced together: he was self-made. He was an individual moving through that nebulous cloud of ‘business’ who had an almost effortless enchantment for making wealth with nothing (terribly) descriptive about his conquests other than the ever-rising, ever-upward feel of exploitation through the machine. He ascended the summit: spidering across boards, steering committees, and think tanks. He had found his niche – corporate contracts – and pincered onto it like a parasite, subsisting off of multiple retainers with enough trailing zeroes to make Heather dizzy. She knew this, because she had seen one of his bank statements roll through on his cell phone (and did an emphatic double-take). A sort of savant, she remembered him tying up every conversation with a flippant I have good instinct for deal-making. He was a creature that shouldn’t exist making money off of numbers that didn’t exist. These financial systems were meaningful only to patrons that wanted a carve-out in currencies and contempt; their beliefs affixed to a scale that existed only because it was determined to exist. And so, it must. This was a nigh-religious tithing. Big, big money exchanging hands just to seek advice from the lips of the oracle. Even the financial markets were part of this banquet. A banquet for which she had somehow become a center piece. But there was a lot to dissect here, wasn’t there? Heather tried to triage her thoughts, to give them shape and meaning. So, my ex-boyfriend — boyfriend? — is an evil creature boogey-man-thing that can contract people down to the size of a fucking pill. Heather hated saying it out loud, it made her feel like a lunatic. But, even her internal voice offered no relief, because no matter the descriptor used, the calculus of it remained the same: He eats the women, so they die; they die because he eats them. Fuck. It was simple math. Simple transitive properties. And she could not undo one fact for the other, because the other twin fact still remained — evil, insidious, and haltingly familiar: like he tried with me. Heather wrinkled her nose. Pussy-first, even. Of course, he had tried to eat me pussy-first. Fuck. She had lived with, sexed with, bonded with the instrument that ritualistically killed. What did that say about her? (And that she conveniently suppressed Tammy?) She had promised herself one year ago (plus) that they would never (ever) get back together again because of the befouled strangeness he had visited upon her that evening — because even then, in her heart of hearts she had known instinctively that what he had done — what he had attempted to do — even when she had not understood it at the time, had been ugly, and that ugliness was now magnified because he had done it before: to others. And Heather did not relish the thought of it, because if she was the prey, and he the predator, then that meant there was a design to this system: a, dare she say it, ecosystem. Which was all together infuriating because that suggested his existence was intentional in spite of - or because of? - a loving omnipotent God. Danny was no terrible accident to surge forth from primordial muck – (or was he?) Stymied, Heather padded out of the wet room, slid into a silk robe, and folded down onto the couch -grabbing a blanket- before casting a calculable glance at the marble table. It felt impossible, like some kind of temporal unmooring was happening. She couldn’t believe she had been trapped on that table, just 3 nights ago, scarcely three inches tall enrobed in nothing save for her moxie. A sudden nausea clutched her. It took a moment to assign meaning to it, but when Heather shifted her weight, she understood it. I need my pills. But, no. I actually really, really, really need my fucking pills. The narcotics made her unpalatable to him. She needed them to curb her appeal; she needed them to survive. Because she did not trust him. I’d be crazy to trust him. She was not sure by which metric she finally determined her surroundings to be safe – but it seemed to be a fair one — because when she carefully, oh-so carefully, whisked herself free from the blanket, nothing happened. I wouldn’t put it past him to have ‘em turn that damn airplane around midflight… So, on silent cat-feet she went. It felt wildly inappropriate to move so freely through his home. Even when they had been dating there had been a crinkle of awkwardness whenever she had done so; but now, now it felt like a spiteful joust. She barely smothered her glee moving ghostly through the walls. The master bedroom loomed. It pulled her. She looked at the conjoined his and her closets. Perfect for skeletons. But that was not her destination; she continued to the ensuite bathroom. It was far from the living room, rather perfectly tucked out of sight: the perfect place for him to hide her pills. It was the last place she’d look; obvious, but not. And, wonderfully symmetrical. A call-back to when he had expunged the pills from her bathroom. First, Heather tried her old spot in the toilet, behind the flush mechanics – but they weren’t there. Rolling her sleeve down, she checked under the floating sink; between the Roman shower panels; behind the diffusive shower head. Nothing. With an exasperated gasp she whipped around, and froze. She was struck by the mirror. Fascinated, she looked at her reflection. Her black hair was a bit tangled, and there was a flush pricking her cheeks, but otherwise she looked as hauntingly familiar as her surroundings. And the most terrifically frightening thing about this – about all of this—she realized, was that there was no evidence left behind: that he had diminished her. Stop it. Stop the bad thoughts. Heather reached out to touch her reflection in a surreal attempt to scold herself. But, the mirror clicked and came forward. “The fuck?” It was a cabinet, but it didn’t look like one: the vanity was seamless and streamlined, illuminated by digital light that spangled brightly across the marble countertop. Opening it had sluiced forward a waterfall of brilliance. Momentarily dazzled Heather froze, then she re-animated. She peered inside. Oh yeah, my pills will be in here. Nice try, Danny. Feeling fiendishly clever: she reached. Well. There were certainly bottles in there. And they certainly resembled those for pills. But there were too many of them and none of them were like hers. She studied them for a long moment, feeling a sort of paralysis. Why did a man-monster, with a fetish for consuming female flesh, need a stockade of pill bottles? (A stockade that was hiding behind a recessed cabinet and a false wall?) Heather looked at the orange bottle menagerie with new eyes. What’s sealed away in these bad boys? Do I even want to know? It felt leering. The cache was hidden; but not. It was an advertisement; but not. Heather felt her theory solidify. He was hiding something. But she wavered. This feels too much like Chekhov’s rifle. Defeated, she turned away — but not before first impulsively grabbing a bottle and shoving it in her pocket. Plot twist: grabbing Chekhov’s rifle. If he had gone through such trouble to hide it, then it had value. Value she would ascertain later. Heather returned to the living room. She gazed out the long translucent window; the moon gazed back. Under it, the woods were canopied in thick, breathing shadows. She twisted her fingers together, her brain slowly ticking like a metronome, each syncopation flickering through her heartbeat. I need to find my pills. Heather studied the door to the walk-in pantry. Resolved, she eased it open, and stepped inside. To the fore: a glass-empaneled wine room encased in the wall, airbrushed by platinums and silvers; to the sides: a litany of labels and sensuous bottles stacked like lovely little ladies, all neat in a honey-comb row. To the back: a sequestered room full of overwhelming excess. There was something distressing about seeing a cache of alcohol in a man-beast’s lair. But to it she went, running her fingers over the tempered glass. Being in the presence of this churned so many embittered thoughts to the surface. Namely, if this need of his to consume was not actually a necessity, and instead, a voluntary practice… Then, well, everything flowing from that was made uglier. Uglier, because it was a choice. A selfish, demonic choice. Made over, and over, and over again. (Giving credence to his nickname of divided devil). Otherwise, these bottles were very stately, very expensive prop pieces emblazoned with silver-flecked labels of Cypress olive trees. “Did you know that you have pattern here? You have preference?” She could hear him saying in great projection, in her head, just as he did in the warehouse 3 days ago. Well, so do you, she said moodily. You really like expensive shit.Heather ticked her nails against the glass. If, however, this was a biological imperative — and Heather felt so proud of herself, mentally producing that word — then, she would be pushing against a pounding, irreconcilable animal instinct. Over and over again. Until his jaws snapped over her head. Which is why I need my pills. Heather traced her finger around the foil of the label. Something was prickling her scalp. It was the same sensation that had trickled across her from whence she gazed into his flawless eyes, within the cupped universe of his massive hands, 3 days ago. That something, it flickered, it - The symbols. The symbols on the label were reminiscent of the ones inlaid on his necklace. Runic? Demonic? This is what I get for not paying attention to Charmed, I guess. Feeling compelled, feeling driven by some instinct she did not yet understand, she flicked free her cell phone and snapped a photo. It processed. She looked down at the screen, and gasped. Surfacing, and coming into focus like a stabilizing lake reflection, was a slow coalescing of shapes. The shapes contorted, flickering, dancing before her eyes, before revealing – Heather blinked – a branching of words. Heather looked at the wine label, her cell phone; back again. Instead of the symbols inlaid on the wine label, seen by the naked eye, there were now words veneered across her cell phone screen. What kind of black magic was this? What runes was she reading? What – Oh. A banner appeared under the image. That was the devil magic: Google Lens had translated the symbology. Apparently, the symbols on the wine label – the symbols inlaid in his necklace – were not symbols; not at all. They were letters derived from… Heather wrinkled her nose. An alphabet? She pushed the photo into a hidden folder on her phone. It felt important. It felt necessary. She would examine it later. Feeling strange, she turned away from the menagerie of glass bottles, and the ground underfoot, spun. She buckled. But she grabbed the wire-rack before impacting, but in so doing, something impacted with her. Plink. Smarting, she rubbed the back of her head. The foreign object clattered to the floor. She reached, and her fingers closed around a nostalgic shape that sent a spike of excitement through her. A Mentos Box. Holy shitballs. My pills. She knew it; it was immediate. She knew that he would have stashed her pills in something above Heather-height (and with her sightline barely floating above five-foot, that was laughably easy). She flicked open the lid. And the sight was so beautiful to behold, she could cry. All neat, in a honey-comb row were her pills. They were inlaid like little pretty purple ladies. Some, she realized, he had taken from the pill dispensary in excess.But, something flickered, glow-bright at the liminal edge of her vision. My phone! The screen lit up. Her phone, blockaded by 3 days of dead air, now in the pantry, adjacent to the hotspot, received a tidal wave: hundreds, if not thousands, of notifications windowed onto the screen in an epileptic flash of color. Normally she would have harvested them with adolescent glee, but tonight her goal was not social media adulation, no, she had more pressing matters to attend to; namely, trying to decipher the strange symbology on the wine bottle, on his necklace, that translated into a sleeve of gibberish. So, she pulled up the screen lock, intending to retire her phone. And she would have done so, if it were not for the very lively text that suddenly popped onto her screen.,Heather’s heart started pounding in sentience. It formed sentences in her temples. He knows. He knows. He knows. Fuck, he knows. She gripped her face. She turned in a tight, worrisome circle. Don’t lie. Just, don’t lie. It’d be dumb to lie.,,,Heather stared at those three accursed words.,Ok. Not too bad. He’s not that pressed about it. Besides, they both knew she hadn’t unlocked it to go through it. Yet. Heather shoved a protein bar in her mouth; chased it down with a dollop of peanut butter. Oh my God, so good. The velvety mouthfeel was satisfying. It had been a few days since she’d eaten. Somehow, the thought of eating, as a broad, generalized concept, had disturbed her. But, now, relaxing in the afterglow of their conversation that was bubbling along, she felt… content. It felt good. Fed, and off a sprig of inspiration she volleyed him a series of text messages – flagrantly ignoring the double-text rule, because I am Aries hear me roar – then grabbed a tub of yogurt.,Heather snorted down a laugh behind her elbow.,,,Heather stared at her phone in mutiny. She stabbed the yogurt. Why was he gaslighting her? She could see the symbols: clear as day on the tempered glass. Tiffed, she tried once more.,No, she wouldn’t let him deflect.,Ok, fine, asshole. I’ll figure this out on my own. Heather took a screen shot and pushed it into the hidden folder. This was an interesting exchange. She had some juicy terms to research later. Another text popped on screen. Was she enjoying this?,She immediately regretted her choice of words. Geez what a weird Freudian Slip. And, for some reason she didn’t delete it. In fact, Heather, mused, she could lord that over him, couldn’t she? She never deleted her messages.,,,,,She knew him enough to know that his insult was actually an affectionate tease. Because: her “old” Danny was peeking through; the man she genuinely liked; the man with whom she fell in love; the man she became enamored with three-hundred-and… Heather wrinkled her nose. Shit. She couldn’t remember. Her calendar, her count-down, her red-x rebellion felt so far away now. It felt like those artifacts, those thoughts belonged to another woman, in another life. But, this - this was good. He was chatting with her. It flowed. Like old times. Heather felt an opening, and determined to extract his mental state:,No lies detected. He knew, and she knew, that he was stupidly attractive. There was nothing more infuriatingly sexy than a man that was unapologetically aware of his own charms. And, worse: he used them against her. Stop. Don’t do this to me. He was so convincing. So very, very convincing. But that was the thing of it, wasn’t it? Her divided devil was always convincing. She read the slow scroll of text messages. And she tried to push down the feels.,,,God, she could tantrum.,,,Heather’s scalp prickled again. She was not sure which observation was worse: the talent he had for making even that sound darkly seductive; or the knowledge that something - something wasn’t quite right. The sensation the symbols had created in her, earlier, moved through her now, with tactility, tingling up her wrist. But - wait, no. It wasn’t her wrist; it was her phone. It was buzzing. And, somehow, she knew it wasn’t Danny’s buzz. She looked down and gasped.,,,,,,,Her breath came through her nostrils in a still, silky inertia.,,,,,,,,,,,Heather sagged. Somehow, she had never considered that her divided devil would reach outside the strictures of their universe. The thought of him slipping through the seams and insinuating himself into the greater, wider world – not as the roaming CEO, but as the predatory monster – felt wrong. It felt forbidden. He couldn’t … What had felt so far away and remote – said without being said in the spectacle of the warehouse – was now flickering between the seams of the conversation with Priestess. And worse: she hated assigning liturgical meaning to his existence because there then existed the possibility – no matter how remote – that he was the product of a compound sentence cast down from the stoic shadows of biblical lore. Heather looked down at her arm. He had been a silent predator. Not even his fingerprints had been left on her. And had he successfully consumed her, there would have been no evidence of that either; she’d have slipped into him with nothing but a whimper. Would he do that to these women? It was okay, the thought of him eating other women, until it wasn’t. Until these women suddenly became devastatingly real. Priestess writes in blue text, she thought to herself, whimsically. This was a real person, a real individual. Her neck tightened. And Danny wants to eat you. In the construction of her thoughts, she couldn’t get the two concepts to come together, to behave. The woman that writes in blue text is gonna end up in his gullet. It was creating a violent schism in her brain. The man that was sending her a cat reel, was capable of extreme violence. But Priestess was typing. She watched the text materialize.,She swallowed dryly. This… no. This was an elaborate coincidence, an elaborate mistake.Heather banked her head over her shoulder. Having such a wildly inappropriate conversation behind his back – about him – made it feel like he’d crawl out of the walls. She read the text message again. This had to, it must, it has to be coincidence. A constellation of coincidences. But her fingers were moving. She was typing. But Priestess had already responded.,,,,,Heather’s mouth creaked open as the significance of what Priestess said moved through her in terrible bodily silence. Heather peeked into Danny’s thread. He had sent her several more text messages since their natural lapse. All innocuous; all with great character; all patently him. This couldn’t be true. To hear someone else narrate the whims of her divided devil felt prohibitively wrong.,Heather felt something building at the base of her spine. This is all wrong. She’s wrong! No, just no. Immediate no.,Her face pinched together. He read her thread? He was in the Forum? Was he? A new dimension of possibility entered her, then. If her thread served as the entry point for him, then it was because of her he knew where to hunt, to observe, to hover sight unseen at the periphery of her stupid, clumsy thread as a wave of women trickled in, blessedly unaware they were burdened by his predatory gaze. Heather couldn’t accept this.,“I’m tired of contracts,” he groused. “But, fuck it. What’s one more.” He held his free hand out in mock placation. “Continueth, Heather.”,Well, fuck it. What do I got to lose? With her belly full of yogurt and spite, she flicked her screen over to Danny’s. This feels dumb. She knew to be crafty, she knew to gently insinuate the idea, so, she broached the subject in her imitable Heather fashion. He’s never, not once, as long as I’ve known him talked about contracts being binding or whatever. But, the first thing he did, after an impulsive response, was delete his message. Huh?,,,Heather’s pulse jumped. Wait; no. This had to be a coincidence. She flicked her screen back to Priestess.,,,,,Something knotted in her stomach. She sent the text exchange to Priestess as a screenshot, suddenly cracking through the digital divide and merging – abruptly – their three worlds. It felt wrong; so wrong, breaking the seal around their privacy, but Heather felt rudely snubbed. Because it felt like she was holding up two panes of glass: and in their interlace, a jagged, distorted reflection was forming, dangling off the shards in dreaded replication like the false medicine cabinet. She was looking into a spectacle, and the specular shape of something was emerging from the periphery of her vision, and she knew that if she looked at it directly, it would evade her. So, she moved downwind; she moved cleverly. Because this was… this was encroaching on, and slowly crawling beyond coincidence.,,,And, just as she dreaded, he evaded. What was happening? But, this felt like it could very easily be a presumptive coincidence. I need more, Heather thought to herself. Her scalp crawled as his blithe deceit continued in a sedate roll of text messages.Heather looked over her shoulder again, as though, at any moment, he would spider down the wall. She couldn’t shake the feeling that each crisp, audible screenshot was, somehow, moving across time and space, reporting to him like a seditious whipcrack. And he’s gonna crack himself against me, if he finds out. Heather carefully extracted the relevant bits of conversation, like running clean scalpel lines down taxonomical flesh, and ferried it over to Priestess. I’ll only send the relevant stuff…. that way, the sin of carving up the body of their privacy wouldn’t be so grave.Another screenshot. Another crack. Another crack in her brain. Another crack in the divide.Heather had to get to the bottom of this. She had to.,,,He still hadn’t agreed to her term.,,,,,Heather chewed her lip. Priestess was typing again after having examined the screenshot shared. ,,,I need more, Heather thought to herself. This was creeping back over the dividing line toward something more than revelatory coincidence. But she needed more. She prompted him again. More. She needed more.,,,More.She needed more. Feeling some urge she couldn’t yet identify, she prompted him again. This time, her subconscious helped him. ,And a part of her deeply wanted to see his response.,,,,,,,But, to herself, she made a small, soft moan.,Oh my God. his had all been fine until he had said bone. And this all, this all felt simultaneously like and not like her divided devil. She was… she was somehow pulling a new cryptid out of this text conversation (and herself). Priestess had been right. He would try to tether the need for a contract with that of her frail mortality. She carefully extricated parts of the conversation., Blowing out a breath, she focused back on the word he had introduced into their interaction. Pharyngeal. She used it to induce him; to bring back the premise of the contract under the biddings of her Priestess.,He hadn’t deleted his text because he felt contrite; he had deleted it because he felt betrayed by his own impulsivity, and he didn’t want Heather to see the ugliness pouring out of him so soon. And, she knew this. She knew this as one knows the change in seasons. Plainly, and without question. It pained her. She could almost hear the glacial crack in the shiny veneer of human he kept about himself. With a twitch, she returned to Priestess’s screen, a sudden surge of tears down her face. But, to Priestess, she showed calculable calm.,To be made sightless? That was a deep, deep evil she did not want to contemplate. She clutched her phone and cleverly dragged her response across the keys, hoping to appease him, hoping to pivot away from all these strange coincidences.,What. This has to be coincidence. This - this was a perfectly normal response. Perhaps a little dramatized; perhaps a little extreme, but entirely him. Her fingers sprang to life. Except… she buckled. It’s not. She sobbed into her arm. It’s not.,Disbelief drained her. But, she did not know how to repair this. So, she did the sane thing: and provoked him.,It felt like he was typing for a biblical age. But she needed more of that… that thing again. She needed that rush.,Heather could weep in relief. It was coincidence after all – it.,That masochistic urge went through her. What am I doing? ,She had to see if they were laboring under elaborate coincidence. She had to. (That’s what she told herself. It wasn’t because she needed his violence). His response buzzed back, and she leapt into it.,,,She stared at his text in disbelief. And when next her phone buzzed, it felt like it buzzed with rancor. What? No no no no no. Just, no. Oh My God.,Heather reared backwards. One of the wine bottles clattered against the wire-rack joist. It spun around and around with a bell-tolling seminary clang. That feeling was moving through her again. Coincidence. This has to be coincidence. This has to be… her face crumpled, cracking. It was entirely too… she gasped down a heaving bulge of emotion. It was in haunting parallel to the intonations of her Priestess. And beyond the threshold of pain she wanted to court.With a spiteful lunge of her finger, she took a screenshot of this, and sent it to Priestess. But his next spat of text messages nullified her. ,,,Stark white went through her eyes. She flicked back to Priestess. What did this mean? Was he laboring under the lore, or worse: somehow contravening it? Or… Heather felt dizzy. Was he scoffing at it in sneering delight? Did this mean, on some level, he was aware of it, and, thus, somehow ascended above it? Or, was this a ploy to distract her as he languidly embraced it? This was… Heather picked up her phone; dropped it; picked it up. Thank God, Priestess was speaking. His rancor did not seem to startle the woman that wrote in sangfroid blue. I want to be best friends with you.,,,,,,,30,000 FEETAt 30,000 feet, through slit eyes, he looked at his phone. It was blinking. He tilted his head. The fingers of his free hand flicked against his temple as he skimmed his thumb down the screen, pulling up a wave of notification banners. Each one ticked upward. SCREENSHOT TAKENSCREENSHOT TAKENSCREENSHOT TAKEN These were, he realized, screenshots of their private – very private – conversation. Oh, rude, pretty kitty. His fingers continued to flick against his temple as he read. He read their conversation with new eyes – no syllable spared. An eyebrow flicked upward in stoic response as he realized, suddenly, the screen shots had pattern. And he divined it, sitting up straighter. He told her as much with an angry stab of his fingers. But, something in addition to this caught his eye, something undefinable – Oh. It was blank space. Negative space had been what teased at his eye. “Oh, no, baby girl,” he muttered to himself. “You di-int.” Lucidly, he stared at the text message screen for what felt like a biblical age. Time felt curiously elastic, as though it had stretched across multiple generational lifespans, as he looked at the blank, barren space: the lapse, the deafening silence, the beautiful, beautiful void dangling under their text messages that crippled him with excitement. Heather had: in her plight to leave, to escape the conversation and the house - innocent and ignorant - unaware of the Common Law, dangerously, oh-so dangerously left the contract open. An insane, obscene flush went through him. And he began to type. To fill her - it, them - the blank space with anything he wanted. He sent his first response; then a second; then a third. And he didn’t stop. He delivered an unending deluge: a frothing tide of terms, one more insidious than the next; branching, and splitting, dividing, feeding on itself, and because she did not respond, silence was assent – as promised, taking her voice – and it became this ugly sentient thing that raptured in its knowledge, heaving out of control, and he heaved each term, each barbaric promise onto the screen creating covenants around her body, breath, blood, bone – and in a continuing conniption of his fingers – covenants around his mouth, teeth, throat, splanchnic tissue – and how he’d deliver her into each. He walked through the graphic process, text by text. Each text sent her deeper into him. Talking of her deliverance. He even wrote of her diminishment – her size that he’d control at his whim – and her sexual defilement – her body that he’d control at his pleasure. But, he added a provision, a teasing, dangling after-thought: not all at once, of course. He was simply reserving his privileges. Privileges, that he specified, would have no limit. And.A thin, silky stream of inertia went through his nostrils. His hand hovered. He couldn’t believe how badly he wanted it. And with a sudden slow tap of his fingers, relishing every word written, every word shaped, he invoked the covenant of her death. And that he’d be the sole administrator of it. He hit send – and then, he hit delete (of course). He purged these text messages, just as he did the ones earlier from whence she first (in her beautiful ignorance) asked to contract. Now, with the full corpus of the agreement crafted in her absence, it effortlessly inherited each of his previous (invisible) terms. This, too, he deleted form visual detection. And this, of course, had no real effect other than cleverly hiding everything from her innocent mortal eyes. Because, as promised, he’d take her sight, too. Let’s get tight, Pretty Kitty. AUTHOR NOTE: Next – the full Heather and Danny text message conversation. And just as Heather surmised, this is not a “50 Shades Contract,” this is a soul pact. In the canon of this story, neither party can unilaterally break it; not even Danny. Oh, and you’re not imagining things, Danny does break the fourth-wall, often. Story-Direction: Every text message Danny deleted in his conversation with Heather, was him slowly hiding his terms, which, would be inherited by the corpus of the contract at the end. Heather’s silence – lack of response because she ignored her phone, and because she was unable to see his terms – was her assent to them. And at the close of this chapter, Danny deleted the entire visual existence of the contract because you can't fight a contract if you don’t even know it exists. In essence: he was slowly winding contract terms around them the entire text conversation, the moment she opened the door. Don't let the vulgarity fool you; he's freakishly brilliant.
LadyNefalum
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