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The only pain in pleasure is the pleasure of pain. ANNE RICE
Because what is life, if not just a series of small deaths until the inevitable end?
Even with people dying every day, this world is still dreadfully overpopulated.
“Aleksandr Vorovsky, heir to the last ruling family, servant of the god of excess, and slave to no vice.”
“Constantine Agonis, servant of the god of torture, and invulnerable to pain.”
“Gemini Foley,” the Oracle says, “Servant of the god of trickery, and impervious to all lies. Belladonna Carnalis, servant of the god of lust, and wielder of all carnality.”
“Mercy Crèvecoeur, servant of the god of death, and conduit to the afterlife.”
“Wolfgang Vainglory, servant of the god of idolatry, and wielder of persuasion and worship.”
“Remember, Crèvecoeur?” His body tenses while his mouth remains next to my ear. “When you served your cunt up on a silver platter for me at Manor?”
“Next time you want to slither into places you don’t belong, I’ll force-feed you my cum with your caviar on toast, really make it a delicacy.”
“I don’t need you to explain to me in words how watching me kill him made you feel,” I hiss into her skin while my own skin burns and burns and burns. “Considering how you’re currently fucking my lap, you sick little fuck.”
I despise her. I crave her. I will have her.
“If we’re already damned like you claim we are,” he says low and dark, fingers digging into my cheeks. His face is serious but the corner of his mouth curls into a bitter smile. “Then killing you is not how I want to meet my death.”
If this is what it tastes like to die, then there is a reason why I worship the god of death.
And here we are now. At the very crescendo of our forbidden dance. A dance macabre, where even the threat of our own deaths did not stop us.
I kiss her with such desperation that it’s almost as if her breath, her very air, is what I need to survive. I kiss her like this might be our last.
“You even taste like obsession,”
“What a delight,” he says, his lip tugging into a harsh grin. “To have your own dagger turn you into my whore.”
“The sound of your throaty moans haunts my every waking moment.”
I will always catch her. I will always find her.
“Touch yourself, Mercy,” I groan as I squeeze one of her breasts over her dress, the silk smooth, her nipple hard and pebbled under my touch. “I want you to make yourself come as the city watches.”
“Say my name when the pleasure overtakes you. Let me possess you. Let me be the reason your heart beats wildly in your chest.”
“Let me beg for forgiveness for the rest of our lives,” she pleads breathlessly. “Please. Let me tell you every day that I choose you and only you.”
That I love Mercy more than anything in this damned world. Even myself.
