“You’re moving to another facility tomorrow, puppy.” At first you don’t understand. Your brain’s a bit hazy, with your head between her thighs and her taste lingering on your lips. And her fingers in your hair, again, longer than it was when you arrived. Not regulation. “… I am?” “Mhmm. Things are in motion. Your empire’s getting desperate, too,” a sharp-toothed grin, “maybe we’ll trade you for something good.” “… oh.” ...
Her stomach clenches and she desperately holds her mouth shut, hands clamped tight over her thin surgical mask. Some of the other passengers glance at her; she’s breaking public transit’s unspoken agreement, drawing attention to herself. It’s fucking embarrassing. It’s really not helping.
It is said that devils hunger for souls, and many a wayward maiden—and dispossessed gentleman—quakes with fear at the prospect of what might befall them if they misjudge the stranger who so kindly offers them a warm bed, a hearty meal, a heavy purse … For, oh! So easily may an immortal soul be lost! Eternity hangs in the balance at every moment, so vulnerable, so delectable. Each moment of life teeters in the balance between paradise and damnation, and the light of tender grace will never penetrate the darkness beyond that too-sharp smile. ...
Originally posted to Twitter on August 13, 2022. The devil is not so crass as to wait outside your door. She leaves a calling card pinned to it and is gone before the doorbell’s chime fades into the city’s rumbling heartbeat—disappearing into a cab, or behind a truck; denying you any glimpse of her. The card is heavy in your hand; thick paper, expensively printed. Embossed with a curving floral pattern that doesn’t pretend to match the elegant red ink. ...
The call’s coming from beneath her skin. It’s not yet ready to be dead, not ready to be buried and forgotten, grave bell ringing with wild abandon. Louder with each heartbeat, louder with each breath, an electric shriek filling the too-still air—!