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The first death I ever experienced was my own. Ripped out of my mother’s womb by sterile gloved hands and forced to take my first breath into this vile, repulsive world. I’ve been dying ever since. We all have. Because what is life, if not just a series of small deaths until the inevitable end?
A dance macabre, where even the threat of our own deaths did not stop us.
“I’ve tasted your blood before,” she says breathlessly, “Now let me consume even more of you.” Her hand strokes my cock, her eyes burning with wild flames. “Show me what ruinous desire tastes like.”
“Your mouth is just as greedy as your pretty little cunt, I see,”
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.
Wolfgang planned to have a crematorium built for me.
“A life without you,” she says so quietly I could almost convince myself I made it up. My heart pitches out of my chest and into hers.
My cock throbs with the promise of a lifetime spent with Mercy. But my soul seeks an even deeper promise. A merging of our flesh where I become her and she becomes me.
“A lifetime isn’t enough, Mercy.” I punch every word with a savage thrust, my cock so achingly deep. “A lifetime is still much too short.”
What is this feeling? It hurts. Uncomfortable. It’s a grating, throbbing thing. Is this what it feels like to experience regret? Deep and soul-churning regret. I hate it. I need it to stop.
