*Tenebris*
A Mortem Treat
Trigger warnings for death and body fluids. If you've read Mortem, you come prepared...
Roarke:
CONT:
My Bree isn’t sane. Neither am I. We’re a match made in hell, and what a match we are.
I push open the opaque glass doors to the closet and grab my black leather gloves, pulling them on, slowly, reveling in the act, in what’s about to happen.
I’m not semi-hard anymore. I’m hard as a fucking rock.
Her chest rises and falls more rapidly. I stand over her, one foot on each side of her hips, then I kneel, move her arms to her sides before I put my gloved hands around her slender throat.
She’s so small, painfully thin even. I’ve thought more than once that one day I will break her spine, sever flesh from bone, tear her into little Bree pieces.
If I ever do, I will die there with her. I will rest among the bloody chunks of my only love and let her take me with her.
Her nostrils flare and a tremor runs through her as I sit on her, pinning her arms between my knees and her hips.
I lean forward and grind against her. I want her heat, her tight channel wrapped around my cock. I want her crying with fear and pain and her sweet surrender as she comes, screaming and fighting.
“Tell them ‘fuck you’ from me,” I say, then I tighten my hold.
Bree nods and gulps against my steel grip. My breaths become heavier as the tension rises in me. She’s still getting air and she doesn’t move. I tighten my hands even further. I know when the oxygen doesn't reach her brain anymore. Her face turns red. Then darker red. Her mouth opens and her chest hitches in involuntary moves as her body fights her will. She spasms and her eyes fly open.
She can’t help herself.
A part of her wants this. Another part of her wants to live with fierce determination. My angel has cheated death so many times. She has survived against all odds.
She even survived me and nearly sent me on my way.
Her arms jerks. She wants to fight. I tense my thighs, sitting heavier. She’s helpless and at my complete mercy. I could come any second. When she gives in, when the struggle leaves her body, I will have to hold myself back because I want more than to spill in my pants. It would be a release, but an unsatisfactory one.
“Give up,” I mumble. “Do you see the light yet?”
Her eyes roll back in their sockets, her mouth is wide open as if in a silent scream, her face dark red, almost bluish. She twitches and kicks, the spasms slower but more profound, rocking her beneath my legs, rubbing her belly against my cock. I close my eyes and feel, savoring every millisecond.
She finally relaxes beneath me and I open my eyes to revel in her ultimate surrender.
“And let there be light.” I let go of her throat and caress down her chest, finding her breasts. I fondle them for a moment, then I lay my ear over her heart and listen. It beats. Hard. Ever the warrior.
She’s sweetly unconscious, but not dead. Not even near dead.
She’ll be disappointed.
Back on my feet again, I look her over. No release of her bladder. It happens in the moment of death.
She’s not dead.
I go to find an armchair that I pull into the hallway, then I pour more wine and sit to watch her.
She’s a mess. Deep purple strangle marks around her throat, her hair in disarray, her blouse wrinkled and disheveled. I stand and correct her position, putting everything back the way they were. Bree appreciates order.
Then I wait. Drink. Wait.
Her eyelids flutter. She wakes with a gasp, then clutches her throat and sits up.
Her gaze is accusatory. “There was only darkness, Roarke. A faint light, flickering far away, then… nothing.”
Her voice is hoarse, she winces as she speaks.
We eat in silence, sitting opposite each other. I study her every move, her every pained swallow. Her eyes are bloodshot but her face is pale again.
Bree is always pale.
She rarely goes out.
Our home is her sanctuary, a murderous sociopath her only safety.
She doesn’t talk a lot and that’s one of many factors that work in our favor. There is no inane babbling, no chit-chat about unimportant issues. When she speaks, I listen. Bree always imparts something profound with her every word.
Our way of life isn’t for everyone.
She finishes her meal. She never really tastes what she eats. One other thing that connects us. Food is sustenance, but eating is utterly uninteresting as an activity. “I want you to do it again,” she says.
I eye the strangle marks. They look painful. “Tonight?”
She nods. “In two hours. I don’t want the food in my stomach. I want to bathe and prepare.”
I stand and take our plates. She gets up too, takes cutlery and glasses. We do the dishes in companionable silence. I wipe my hands and put the towel back on the hook. “I’ll read.”
Bree cups my cheeks and stands on her toes, then brushes my lips with hers.
The light touch shoots straight to my aching cock. I grab her butt and lift her with ease, shoving her up on the counter, then I pull off her pants and panties in one move, spread her legs and pull open my zipper. Cock freed, I then plow into her tight cunt. Bree squeals and gasps, clutches her throat with one hand and my shoulder with the other. She wasn’t prepared but she thrives on the pain of my invasion. Her own hurt is a constant companion, since way before we met, and the agony of our meetings dulls that other pain. She needs it just as much as I do.
I grab her, no doubt tender, throat and fuck her hard, shoving her head against the cupboard. Her hands find their way under my shirt and she claws my back so hard it must draw blood. It spurs me on and I tighten my grip, spearing her on my cock, crashing into my mad woman. She arches up, her dark, beautiful eyes wide open. Her mouth forms an O, and then she comes, trashing and shuddering.
This is not when I kill her. I promised her two hours.
This is not when I come.
Bree is in the bathroom for a long while. Light flowery scents waft out with a slight mist.
I don’t wash off. I like her juices covering my cock. I like the scents of sex and that slight tang of metal, of her blood.
I read, but I don’t register the words. My whole being is with her.
Time passes.
She moves around the house.
Then she stands before me, her arms behind her back. No makeup. A white dress, the fabric so sheer I see her dark nipples and the bush of hair on her mons. Her waist-long hair lies splayed over her shoulders and frames her face. Her feet are naked.
My wicked queen looks so young, so innocent.
The only thing that reveals her true nature are the dark finger prints on her throat.
I don’t need to look at a clock. My body knows that exactly two hours have passed. I stand. She remains. I move in until our chests touch and I tower over her.
Bree holds up a towel, then she kneels. I take the towel and fold it twice before I put it on the floor watching as she lies down, placing her butt on the towel. It raises her hips a little. Her hip bones protrude. The shape of her, all her hard edges and indents never cease to entice me. I move up the dress and bare her to the waist, then I spread her legs and put my hand between them, fingering her cunt. She’s soaked, slick and ready for me. Zipper pulled down, I free my cock. I’m also so very ready. She spreads her legs wider as she holds my gaze. I line up and then I push into her, slower this time, needing to feel the slight resistance give way when I take her.
“Show me the light, Roarke.”
I move inside her. Painfully slow. “I promise.”
I kneel, pull her to me, thrust. The slight roundness of her breasts bounces with every push. I palm them, moving my hands closer and closer to her throat, then I circle it, match my fingers to the dark bruises.
When I begin to squeeze her eyes glaze over. Widen until they’re round and huge. Deliciously frightened. I understand. Death hurts. Not always, but my death hurts.
I move in her, her life mine to spare or to take. Her surrender is my drug. My lethality hers. She craves the darkness and that’s all I am.
I’m darkness, and I’m hers.
She’s free to clutch at my hands this time. And she fights me. Oh, how she fights me. I fuck her harder and harder. Bree jerks and jolts, bouncing beneath me. Her pussy spasms. I think she comes more than once on my pistoning cock while life leaves her. Her lips move. I wonder what she sees in those last faint flickers of consciousness.
I know the moment she crosses over and that’s when I spill in her. I fuck her through her death. I fuck her when she looses control of her bladder. Warm liquid floods my groin and the insides of my thighs, soaking the towel she brought so thoughtfully.
Bree is still.
I sit back, a hand on her chest. “There will be light for you, my Bree. For you.”
Not for me.
I listen, my ear to her heart.
Nothing.
No beats.
She is still in there somewhere, still fighting. Her brain is deprived, but the electrical synapses are firing between the neurons a little while longer in there before everything is truly too late.
I move to kneel by her side, put both hands over her breastbone, and then I bring her back.
I wash her, dress her, clean myself and our house.
Then I wait.
Our dance with death isn’t over.
Our story isn’t one of tenderness and caring, it’s one of madness, of descent into the deepest pits of darkness.
But it’s ours.
I can’t define love. I don’t understand it. The only thing I know is that our fates are connected through life and death.
Nothing will part us.
My Bree isn’t sane. Neither am I. We’re a match made in hell, and what a match we are.
I push open the opaque glass doors to the closet and grab my black leather gloves, pulling them on, slowly, reveling in the act, in what’s about to happen.
I’m not semi-hard anymore. I’m hard as a fucking rock.
Her chest rises and falls more rapidly. I stand over her, one foot on each side of her hips, then I kneel, move her arms to her sides before I put my gloved hands around her slender throat.
She’s so small, painfully thin even. I’ve thought more than once that one day I will break her spine, sever flesh from bone, tear her into little Bree pieces.
If I ever do, I will die there with her. I will rest among the bloody chunks of my only love and let her take me with her.
Her nostrils flare and a tremor runs through her as I sit on her, pinning her arms between my knees and her hips.
I lean forward and grind against her. I want her heat, her tight channel wrapped around my cock. I want her crying with fear and pain and her sweet surrender as she comes, screaming and fighting.
“Tell them ‘fuck you’ from me,” I say, then I tighten my hold.
Bree nods and gulps against my steel grip. My breaths become heavier as the tension rises in me. She’s still getting air and she doesn’t move. I tighten my hands even further. I know when the oxygen doesn't reach her brain anymore. Her face turns red. Then darker red. Her mouth opens and her chest hitches in involuntary moves as her body fights her will. She spasms and her eyes fly open.
She can’t help herself.
A part of her wants this. Another part of her wants to live with fierce determination. My angel has cheated death so many times. She has survived against all odds.
She even survived me and nearly sent me on my way.
Her arms jerks. She wants to fight. I tense my thighs, sitting heavier. She’s helpless and at my complete mercy. I could come any second. When she gives in, when the struggle leaves her body, I will have to hold myself back because I want more than to spill in my pants. It would be a release, but an unsatisfactory one.
“Give up,” I mumble. “Do you see the light yet?”
Her eyes roll back in their sockets, her mouth is wide open as if in a silent scream, her face dark red, almost bluish. She twitches and kicks, the spasms slower but more profound, rocking her beneath my legs, rubbing her belly against my cock. I close my eyes and feel, savoring every millisecond.
She finally relaxes beneath me and I open my eyes to revel in her ultimate surrender.
“And let there be light.” I let go of her throat and caress down her chest, finding her breasts. I fondle them for a moment, then I lay my ear over her heart and listen. It beats. Hard. Ever the warrior.
She’s sweetly unconscious, but not dead. Not even near dead.
She’ll be disappointed.
Back on my feet again, I look her over. No release of her bladder. It happens in the moment of death.
She’s not dead.
I go to find an armchair that I pull into the hallway, then I pour more wine and sit to watch her.
She’s a mess. Deep purple strangle marks around her throat, her hair in disarray, her blouse wrinkled and disheveled. I stand and correct her position, putting everything back the way they were. Bree appreciates order.
Then I wait. Drink. Wait.
Her eyelids flutter. She wakes with a gasp, then clutches her throat and sits up.
Her gaze is accusatory. “There was only darkness, Roarke. A faint light, flickering far away, then… nothing.”
Her voice is hoarse, she winces as she speaks.
We eat in silence, sitting opposite each other. I study her every move, her every pained swallow. Her eyes are bloodshot but her face is pale again.
Bree is always pale.
She rarely goes out.
Our home is her sanctuary, a murderous sociopath her only safety.
She doesn’t talk a lot and that’s one of many factors that work in our favor. There is no inane babbling, no chit-chat about unimportant issues. When she speaks, I listen. Bree always imparts something profound with her every word.
Our way of life isn’t for everyone.
She finishes her meal. She never really tastes what she eats. One other thing that connects us. Food is sustenance, but eating is utterly uninteresting as an activity. “I want you to do it again,” she says.
I eye the strangle marks. They look painful. “Tonight?”
She nods. “In two hours. I don’t want the food in my stomach. I want to bathe and prepare.”
I stand and take our plates. She gets up too, takes cutlery and glasses. We do the dishes in companionable silence. I wipe my hands and put the towel back on the hook. “I’ll read.”
Bree cups my cheeks and stands on her toes, then brushes my lips with hers.
The light touch shoots straight to my aching cock. I grab her butt and lift her with ease, shoving her up on the counter, then I pull off her pants and panties in one move, spread her legs and pull open my zipper. Cock freed, I then plow into her tight cunt. Bree squeals and gasps, clutches her throat with one hand and my shoulder with the other. She wasn’t prepared but she thrives on the pain of my invasion. Her own hurt is a constant companion, since way before we met, and the agony of our meetings dulls that other pain. She needs it just as much as I do.
I grab her, no doubt tender, throat and fuck her hard, shoving her head against the cupboard. Her hands find their way under my shirt and she claws my back so hard it must draw blood. It spurs me on and I tighten my grip, spearing her on my cock, crashing into my mad woman. She arches up, her dark, beautiful eyes wide open. Her mouth forms an O, and then she comes, trashing and shuddering.
This is not when I kill her. I promised her two hours.
This is not when I come.
Bree is in the bathroom for a long while. Light flowery scents waft out with a slight mist.
I don’t wash off. I like her juices covering my cock. I like the scents of sex and that slight tang of metal, of her blood.
I read, but I don’t register the words. My whole being is with her.
Time passes.
She moves around the house.
Then she stands before me, her arms behind her back. No makeup. A white dress, the fabric so sheer I see her dark nipples and the bush of hair on her mons. Her waist-long hair lies splayed over her shoulders and frames her face. Her feet are naked.
My wicked queen looks so young, so innocent.
The only thing that reveals her true nature are the dark finger prints on her throat.
I don’t need to look at a clock. My body knows that exactly two hours have passed. I stand. She remains. I move in until our chests touch and I tower over her.
Bree holds up a towel, then she kneels. I take the towel and fold it twice before I put it on the floor watching as she lies down, placing her butt on the towel. It raises her hips a little. Her hip bones protrude. The shape of her, all her hard edges and indents never cease to entice me. I move up the dress and bare her to the waist, then I spread her legs and put my hand between them, fingering her cunt. She’s soaked, slick and ready for me. Zipper pulled down, I free my cock. I’m also so very ready. She spreads her legs wider as she holds my gaze. I line up and then I push into her, slower this time, needing to feel the slight resistance give way when I take her.
“Show me the light, Roarke.”
I move inside her. Painfully slow. “I promise.”
I kneel, pull her to me, thrust. The slight roundness of her breasts bounces with every push. I palm them, moving my hands closer and closer to her throat, then I circle it, match my fingers to the dark bruises.
When I begin to squeeze her eyes glaze over. Widen until they’re round and huge. Deliciously frightened. I understand. Death hurts. Not always, but my death hurts.
I move in her, her life mine to spare or to take. Her surrender is my drug. My lethality hers. She craves the darkness and that’s all I am.
I’m darkness, and I’m hers.
She’s free to clutch at my hands this time. And she fights me. Oh, how she fights me. I fuck her harder and harder. Bree jerks and jolts, bouncing beneath me. Her pussy spasms. I think she comes more than once on my pistoning cock while life leaves her. Her lips move. I wonder what she sees in those last faint flickers of consciousness.
I know the moment she crosses over and that’s when I spill in her. I fuck her through her death. I fuck her when she looses control of her bladder. Warm liquid floods my groin and the insides of my thighs, soaking the towel she brought so thoughtfully.
Bree is still.
I sit back, a hand on her chest. “There will be light for you, my Bree. For you.”
Not for me.
I listen, my ear to her heart.
Nothing.
No beats.
She is still in there somewhere, still fighting. Her brain is deprived, but the electrical synapses are firing between the neurons a little while longer in there before everything is truly too late.
I move to kneel by her side, put both hands over her breastbone, and then I bring her back.
I wash her, dress her, clean myself and our house.
Then I wait.
Our dance with death isn’t over.
Our story isn’t one of tenderness and caring, it’s one of madness, of descent into the deepest pits of darkness.
But it’s ours.
I can’t define love. I don’t understand it. The only thing I know is that our fates are connected through life and death.
Nothing will part us.