Black Widow
by Kereia
Rhythm. Slow and sensual. Hard and throbbing. Changing constantly, always in motion. Rolling in waves over his senses, drawing him in, tearing at his non-existent soul, turning him inside out. Like a leash fastened to a collar that chokes his throat, it pulls him into the murky depth of desire and longing. Waves of unbidden emptiness crashing over his head, leaving him trembling and weak at the sight in front of him.
He hates it. He craves it. He could not live without it, which is
absurdly ironic, since he has not been among the living for the past two
hundred years.
”Moon
covered
I try to detach try to decrease
To make it easier on me”
People are writhing on the dance floor, their bodies flowing with the
rhythm. They're caught, captured, incarcerated and they enjoy it. Every second
they spend in the haze of abandonment feels like an eternity to them, yet it is
still not enough. And it never will be.
Like puppets on a string they tumble through oblivion and apathy, trying
to erase the emptiness in their lives, trying to deny the loneliness in their
hearts, the death in their souls. Their arms weave random patterns into the
hot, smoky air, painting images of longing and hope, trying to imitate the life
that they feel was ripped from them. Their hips sway and gyrate, pulsing to the
enslaving beat of the bass that echoes hollow through the darkened room,
vibrating off the dark, bronzed walls, sending shivers of excitement through
the helpless victims that are confined in this palace of deception.
And yet, despite the wild and ecstatic movement of their bodies, their
feet always remain in the same spot. They shuffle around a bit, as if testing
the translucent barriers that hold them here. But instead of fighting for their
freedom, they stay in their place, knowing that there is no escape, no hope, no
sense to resist. And they don't want it any other way. Because the only thing
they are supposed to do is support the flesh and bones that outline the shells
of their bodies.
Empty bodies. As empty as the mirror on the wall he's facing. No
reflection of his being mars the polished surface. He's a phantom. A specter
among the living, and yet more alive than the cattle on the floor will ever be.
He can smell their essence, smell their heady arousal, smell the sweat and
artificial fragrances that penetrate the room. And he can hear their hearts,
the rush of blood flowing through arteries pumped by the small gem in the
center of their chest, its beating synchronized to the staccato of the bass
that fills the air.
And below all that he can hear the slow, seductive drum of her pulse. It
lures him deep into the fog of lust that surrounds her lithe figure, blurring
the sharpness of her light. A light that has changed since he saw her last.
Instead of the brilliant illumination that usually hurts his eyes whenever his
gaze fell on her delectable body, it was a dark flame that burned itself into
his mind. Her smile was daring, seductive, dangerous. She knew her power and
she showed the confidence that came with it to the world. Like a goddess she
stood in front of him. A temptress, sent from the darkest of Lords to mock his
battered mind, to torture him with the deceptive pureness and innocence that
was shining through the dark, lust filled cloud of seduction that surrounded
her like a thick veil.
”Despise
myself for what you've done
Sent me back into my world
Hold yourself 'cause no one will
I'll make it easier now I have managed to be the one
To be the victim without the gun”
Her eyes were focused at him. The dark sea-colored orbs, stormy and
sparkling, emanating longing so powerful it catches his gaze, capturing him,
making him one of them. Just like the cattle on the dance floor he becomes
entranced, not with the music, but with the lush, inviting softness of her
lips, the radiant, silky strands of honey blond hair, the swell of her breasts,
barely hidden underneath the wisp of black lace that covers her torso. His
manhood hardens, straining against the confining material of his jeans as he
watches this goddess, this black widow press herself against his lean, hard
frame.
Her voice, sultry and low, reaches his ear as she whispers words of
temptation that will ruin him for anyone else. "I could have anything.
Anyone. Even you, Spike."
”Do
you feel the same anyway now you've come
Do you feel the same anyway now you've come
Hold yourself 'cause no one will
I'll be there to take the spill”
His hands are trembling. He feels the bottle slip between his suddenly
numb fingers as his mind is reeling with the unfathomable implications of her
words. His aching shaft is pulsating, begging for her touch, her heat and
moisture. He can feel the warmth of her body against his cool, muscular chest.
The sensation is burning him, scalding the alabaster skin underneath the black
fabric of his shirt. His eyes never leave her face as he entangles himself more
and more in her fragile looking web, realizing too late that the shimmering
strands will hold him prisoner till the end of time.
"I could ride you at a gallop until your legs buckled and your eyes
rolled up." The barest sliver of her tongue becomes visible as she presses
it against her teeth. Her lips, painted in a red richer than any blood he ever
tasted, are parted, leaving her moist breath washing over his jugular. Tremors
are wracking through his dead, cold body as her lives seeps into him,
incinerating his flesh. He can only marvel at the power she has over him. Like
the poisonous spider that she is, she lets her scent, her warmth and aura wash
over him, capture him. She lets her head fall back, tilting it just the merest
of fractions, taunting him with the exposed flesh of her slender throat.
”Cleanse
you soul change the tide
And ride the wave back into me
stay alert 'cos I'm obsessed
surely you can't be depressed
could I be read if I was see-through
or would you just read my spine”
Hunger and desire rush through his being as his own tongue darts out to
moisten his lips briefly. He can feel her blood coursing through her body,
making her alive, tantalizing and unreachable for a being like him. In his mind
he can see his tongue lavish the warm skin of her neck, exploring every inch,
every taste she has to offer. Sucking her warmth into his mouth, his teeth
would scrape the tender surface of her golden tan, letting sparkling droplets
of power trickle onto her shoulder.
"I've got muscles you've never even dreamed of. I could squeeze you
until you popped like warm champagne, and you'd beg me to hurt you just a
little bit more." Her voice grows even deeper, husky and rough as she
presses her hips against his loins. She gyrates against him, apparently lost in
the rhythm of the music that surrounds her like a protective blanket. It gives
her power and confidence. Here is where she is at home. A black widow in her
web, waiting for her mate. Waiting for the poor soul who will fall victim to
her radiance and beauty.
Do you feel the same anyway now you've come
Do you feel the same anyway now you've come”
He can see them. Their bodies entangled, their skin glistening with
moisture after their frenzied coupling. Moonlight falling through the open
window onto the cold stone floor, battling for dominance with the soft, warm
glow of candles. Frail white curtains billowing in the warm summer breeze that
invades their hidden refuge. And it would not stop there. They would come
together again ... and again, their passion building, growing. He would drink
her life as she drew him deeper and deeper into the fatal addiction that she
was. Each second spent in her embrace was a step closer to sweet and painful
death. Le petit mort. That's what it was called, and she would make him die a
thousand deaths. And he would love it. Carve it. Yearn for it with every fiber
of his being.
She leans in closer to him, their lips almost touching. Her breath
invades his parted lips, filling the cool cavern that lies beyond, sending
shivers of desire down his spine. " And you know why I don't?"
He can see her long lashes, almost hiding the darkness of her eyes as
she looks up at him underneath half closed lids and suddenly the air is too
thick to breath. He chokes on it, even though his lungs have not drawn a mortal
breath in ten generations. His muscles tense; like a coiled panther he waits for
her to fulfill her destiny, to close the trap, to deliver that last fatal blow
that will kill and resurrect him to become her slave, her servant and master.
His vision blurs, becomes reduced to the image of those dark orbs that were his
downfall from the very first second since he met her. She is all that exists,
all that matters.
Her voice is but a hush of wind carried to his ears, too low for any
mortal in the room to hear. "Because it's wrong."
“Do you feel the same anyway now you've come
Do you feel the same anyway now you've come”
Rhythm. Slow and sensual. Hard and throbbing. Changing constantly,
always in motion. Rolling in waves over his senses, drawing him in, tearing at
his non-existent soul, turning him inside out. Like a leash fastened to a collar
that chokes his throat it pulls him into the murky depth of desire and longing.
Waves of unbidden emptiness crashing over his head, leaving him trembling and
weak at the sight in front of him.
That's what she is. This is her essence. His Slayer. The blackest of all
the widows.
As she turns around and walks away from him, her hips sashaying to the
rhythm of the music, he can do nothing but stare after her. His eyes are dark
and his lips parted, his erection throbbing with unfulfilled desire. She is the
spider and this is her web. Where every other mortal had fallen victim to it's
beat, she had mastered it and made it her own.