Feature Writer:
Feature Title: The Ritual
Published: 02.03.2025
Story Codes: Erotic Horror
Synopsis: A Naiive Archivist Partakes in a Dark, Dangerous Ritual
The Ritual
The memory of her striking eyes–dark and veiled, full of promise and venomous beauty–still rolled around in my mind as I followed her down the spiral stone staircase. The stones were cold underfoot, and the damp air seemed to cling to my skin. Behind the frigid musk of mould, the strange fragrance of her perfume lingered in my nose.
With each step, the situation became more tangible. I could feel a rising sickness deep within–or was it excitement? My eyes stayed locked on her swaying body. Her night-black robes floated around her voluptuous frame like flowing shadows, offering maddeningly brief hints of the shape beneath. A feverish heat coiled in my belly, which I fought to ignore.
Surely the promise I saw in her eyes and words was imagined; she just wants me to organise her tomes.
“You’re not having second thoughts, are you, Archivist?” she purred, her voice low yet clear, without turning to look at me. “Come, there is much to do–and even more to learn.”
My legs leapt back into action without prompting. In a distant fugue, I dreamt of what might await.
I jolted back to awareness when I realised she had reached the bottom of the stairs and was standing before me. An unreadable smirk flickered at the corner of her mouth.
Behind her loomed a wooden door framed by an ornate stone arch, inscribed with runes I had never seen before, not even in the oldest reliquaries of the archives. Try as I might, I could barely hold her thrilling gaze, though the tantalising hints of curves beneath her robes were just as enticing. She maintained eye contact as she pushed open the door to a dark room, where the dank, dusty smell was replaced by strange sweet-smelling spices and heady perfumes.
I passed through the glowing sigils, which seemed to draw me in. The chamber was small, its air warm and enticing, with the same exotic, sharp spice cutting through what might otherwise have been sickly sweet. Incense and wax candles dotted the room, revealing only hints of what lay within: a small cabinet filled with unlabelled books, a time-worn desk with alchemical flasks, paper, a quill, and a long kris dagger reflecting the dancing light over its many curves. Deep crimson curtains draped lazily from every wall. At the centre of the room stood a low table covered with crimson silk.
“Do you feel it, Archivist? The air here is alive. It knows you, sees you, tastes you…”
I turned to find her knowing eyes piercing me, filled with quiet excitement.
Her voice entwined my thoughts like a spell woven not with words but with dark intent, binding me in place and striking to the heart of me with each syllable. She forged my will as she saw fit.
I tried to question her, to ask my purpose here, yet the words faltered in my open mouth.
She raised an elegant finger to my mouth–tipped with sharp black nails–and covered my lips.
“You are here…” she turned and moved purposefully to the desk, collecting short black candles. “…to prove yourself worthy of what I might grant you–or…” She paused, and my breath caught in my throat. “…to be consumed by it.”
Her words filled the room, resonating like a drum in the air and penetrating my chest. I ought to have questioned her further–should have run without a word–but my body refused. Something in her words, or perhaps the concoction filling my lungs, compelled me to stay.
She turned back to me with a measured grace, each step echoing in the small chamber. Her hand still lingered on the short black candles she had gathered; the pale curve of her face was illuminated by shifting candlelight, revealing a faint hint of satisfaction.
“Questions, Archivist?” she said, in a tone that suggested she already knew what they were. “I see it in your eyes–confusion, fear, a spark of forbidden curiosity. Speak.”
My throat felt strangely tight. Yet I managed a wavering,
“What… what exactly is it you want from me?”
She ran a finger down one of the unlit candles, collecting a bead of wax and rubbing it between her fingertips as though testing its texture.
“I told you: you’re here to prove yourself. But let me be clear–” She glided closer, leaning in until her breath skimmed my cheek. “This is not a simple test of loyalty or endurance. It’s a convergence of power, of flesh, and will.”
I struggled to form coherent thoughts.
“Convergence,” I repeated, feeling the pull of that word. “You mean… something more than just–”
“Much more,” she interrupted, her lips curving upward in a secretive smile. “The circle requires more than mere blood or compliance. It demands the union of my craft and your unique knowledge–knowledge gleaned from all those years in the archives.” She tapped the side of my head gently, nails clicking in a soft warning. “You think those dusty tomes were collected at random? You carry unwritten secrets in that mind of yours, pieces of lore whose power you never dreamed.”
Her voice was hypnotic, each syllable brushing aside my alarm. Half a dozen questions clamoured in my head, but I managed only one.
“And why me? There must be… others.”
She let the bead of wax drop, her voice softening to a purr.
“Others lack the spirit–or the hunger. You’ve spent a lifetime chasing words and wonders you can barely comprehend. That longing in you… it’s exactly what I need. You yearn to see beyond the veil, and this ritual thrives on yearning. Your submission will fuel it; your mind will shape it.”
A warmth flared deep in my chest that had nothing to do with lust alone. The promise of knowledge–of glimpsing magic beyond the dusty scrolls–stirred me as much as her touch. She must have seen it in my face, because her smile sharpened.
“You see?” she whispered. “That spark in your eyes–that is why you’re here. The moment your curiosity overwhelmed your caution, you were already mine.” She turned abruptly, moving to a small wooden stand loaded with vials. “If you stay, Archivist”–her voice dropped lower, almost contemplative–“you’ll risk your very soul. But if you run, you’ll spend the rest of your life knowing you denied the chance to witness secrets beyond mortal comprehension.”
I should have turned and fled. Instead, I took a trembling step closer. My heart hammered in my ears, some part of me silently screaming that there was no turning back. She tilted her head, regarding me with a look somewhere between amusement and triumph.
“Then stay,” she said, almost gently, “and see what marvels obedience can bring.”
The dark figure moved purposefully yet with calm confidence, arranging items on the desk: candles, chalk, and a wooden box. As she did so, the air itself seemed to grow heavy with anticipation of her next words.
“Every element has its place, Archivist. Every tool, its purpose. And you–you are the most important piece of all.”
My eyes betrayed me, fixed on the sway of her hips and the deliberate grace with which she bent to the floor. Mouth agape, I had never felt such longing before. When her piercing eyes found mine, arousal flipped suddenly to shame. The heat in my groin rose instantly to my neck and cheeks. I couldn’t bear to look at her, glancing instead from the drapes to the dusty shelves and back as she approached me.
“Kneel,” she commanded, her voice softer now but no less authoritative. Her hand found the soft flesh of the back of my arm, the nails sharp enough to sting but not draw blood. “The first step is surrender.”
The words resonated deep within me, a command that seemed to bypass any thoughts entirely. I should have resisted, but the weight of her gaze, the shame filling my chest, and the certainty of her voice left no room for defiance. I dropped to the cold stone floor, knees bouncing off the rock, but I barely noticed the pain as I gazed up at her approving smile. The spiced air seemed to thicken further, almost resisting my attempts to draw it in. Her shadow seemed to grow over me, larger than the room, and I felt an ancient weight settle with us.
“Give me your hands,” she whispered as she produced a black silk cord. I couldn’t have resisted if I tried. “Hold still.” I was struck by the warm softness of her long fingers as she encircled my upturned forearms. The heat from her breath and her oh-so-close bosom washed over me like fire from an artificer’s forge. The silken smoothness of the cord as she began to wrap it around my wrists, arms held in the position of prayer. The sharp threat of her nails pressing into the soft flesh of my underarm. My head swam with the sensations.
“This cord binds more than just your hands, Archivist. It binds your will to mine, your body to the circle, your desire to the ritual.”
With every word, I longed to taste her serpentine tongue; with every delicate touch warming my bare flesh, I longed for another; and with every subtle, promising stab of pain, I ached for more.
Looking up into her dark eyes and the gentle curve of her features, I waited, not daring to speak. Her wry smile drew upwards, tightening like the silk that began to dig into my flesh. The black circles around my arms began to glow white, and behind the Warlockess, a circle on the floor glowed in response, surrounding the low table and reaching the seven candles.
“You’re trembling, my pet. I wonder–is it from fear or from longing?” she asked, her voice dripping with honeyed delight. Long fingers slid under my jaw, squeezing just a little too hard.
With that, she bent down to kiss me, full lips and agile tongue fulfilling every expectation I had secretly harboured for so long. Just as I began to return the kiss with rising passion, she pulled away.
“Come.” The commanding tone was back. I rose slowly but eagerly to my feet, her gentle tug on the silken ties bringing sweet jolts of pain more than offering help. I realised suddenly that I was fully erect, straining against the coarse threads of my breeches. She walked slowly up to the circle.
“You must enter first, willingly. But know this: you will leave the ritual changed–if you leave at all…”
Those words would echo through my head until the end of my life, as they rebounded through my being now. “Changed–if at all…” Yet, her trailing touch still thrilled me, and the fresh sting of the silken ties lingered in my mind, making me crave more.
I gathered myself and stepped across the threshold of the circle. A subtle change came over me, or perhaps over the world. As if a pebble had been dropped into a pond, sending ripples through water that the fish could barely notice. I went to sit on the table, for I knew that was what she wanted.
I surprised myself with my willing surrender. I ought to have questioned her further, demanded to know what she planned. Yet my body betrayed me, craving her touch and her praise equally.
“Excellent,” she said. “You’ve earned a reward for your obedience, Archivist, but know that even rewards have their cost.” A flush of pride and excitement ran through me. Reaching up with one hand, I barely realised what would happen next until her shining black robes fluttered and fell to the stone in a delightful sweep of fabric over smooth skin. Suddenly, she stood in near-naked perfection, proud breasts and pale skin reflecting the light of a hundred flames. She wore something like a corset reminiscent of the dockland inn barmaids, but made of shiny black leather, with knee-high boots of the same material. Silken threads pressed into her thighs, shaping them as though moulded by a sculptor’s hands. She stepped over the threshold, and I felt that strange shift once again, but I was too busy staring at her perfect body.
I sat awkwardly with my hands bound in front of me. She smirked, taking her time as she approached, the soft click of her boots on stone echoing in the charged silence.
She paused just before kneeling, fingers playing over the silk cord around my wrists. A teasing smile curved her lips.
“Look at you, Archivist. So eager… yet so easy to restrain.” Her tone was as sweet as honey, softening in mock sympathy. “You are trembling–do I scare you?”
She let her nails graze my forearm, sending a jolt through my body.
“Or,” she added with a cruel glint in her eye, “is the trembling something else? A craving for more?”
She gave my arms a slow, languid tug, pressing her chest forward until I caught the slightest brush of her skin. My breath hitched, unsure whether I longed to pull away or lean closer.
“Poor thing,” she cooed, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I can make it all vanish in an instant–this ache, this shame… or I can make you drown in it.”
A low laugh escaped her as I closed my eyes, overcome. “Tell me, my dear Archivist, how much further will you let me lead you?”
I sat frozen, my bound hands useless in my lap, my arousal a source of both pain and shame. Her eyes flicked down, her smirk widening as though she could feel every thought racing through my head. Every fibre of my body screamed to lean forward, to touch her, but the silken ties and the weight of her gaze kept me immobilised. I had never felt more powerless–and never craved anything more.
Excruciatingly slowly, she lowered herself to her knees in front of me, her soft body giving way and jiggling delightfully as she did so. Her hands drifted up my shaking legs, untying my coarse hemp belt and beginning to pull down my breeches.
“Eyes on me. Always.”
She hardly needed to say it. Every blink seemed a wasted second of drinking in her terrifying, unearthly beauty. Her touch sent a tingling rush through my very bones.
Quicker now, she stroked my legs, my hips, and my stomach. Never touching my manhood, yet tingling waves of sensation began to build. Finally, she touched me, the very tips of her nails caressing my taut testicles, moving from back to front. I let loose an unintended whimper, and my eyes began to roll back–
Pain shot through me as she instantly squeezed with her deceptively strong hand, nails threatening to break skin. I yelped.
“You’ll learn your place soon enough. You must follow my instructions exactly,” she commanded, playful gentleness gone from her voice and touch, replaced by harsh authority.
Her punishment hurt, but her command hooked deep in my chest, pulling me inexorably into the folds of her will. I wondered if she would be harsher if I disobeyed her again…
Eyes back on hers, she smiled warmly once more, lowering her pristine face toward my throbbing manhood. She opened her gorgeous mouth, her long, lithe tongue extending tantalisingly. Pausing, she seemed to drink in my urgent desire.
Finally, she ran her tongue up my balls. The warm wet sensation started at the base of my existence, slowly running up the entire length of my shaft.
Those full, dark, glossy lips kissed the very tip of my penis, which swelled even more in reply. I almost looked away in desperate desire but forced my eyes to remain on her. She seemed to notice, as a flicker of amusement crossed her gaze before she drew the tip into her mouth. Warm and enticing, her mouth engulfed me. Slowly but steadily, she accepted my full length and opened her throat, I could feel it convulse as she pushed back the urge to gag, working up and down. Her heavy-lidded eyes snapped upwards as though checking I was still watching, and the power in her sudden gaze sent a heady fog through my vision. My mind swam from the intense pleasure.
It wasn’t just the pleasure.
There was something in the incense.
She was enchanting me with her perfect lips, her seemingly impossible dexterity. The slight roughness of her tongue and the occasional nip of a nail on my balls only heightened the delight pulsing through me. She increased her pace, hands, tongue, and lips working in unison over my dripping shaft. Her silken black hair fell about her damp face, mouth as eager as her eyes.
This is better than anything I could have hoped for. How could I have doubted entering the circle even for one second?
Waves of pleasure radiated downward, and the stirring need began to grow. But, just as I felt the irresistible urge building, she withdrew her warmth. I gasped, chest heaving, the acute longing sharper than her nails.
“Not yet. Not until you have earned it,” she said, that devilish smirk returning.
I gasped, cold air returning to my lungs. She swiftly worked with another length of silk, black with speckled gold, deftly circling it around my shaft and testicles. The pressure held back my impatient flood.
My mounting tension halted, frustration replacing anticipation.
“Lie back. I have much to prepare.” She stood and whispered incantations as she exited the circle. My eyes rolled back into my head as I dropped onto the silk-covered stone, raising my bound arms above me and allowing my whole body to feel the unreleased tension.
How quickly things had escalated. It was exhilarating–by far the most exciting night of my life, after weeks of drudgery in the stacks. Whatever she had in store, I would try my best to satisfy her demands.
She moved swiftly and smoothly, almost like a snake, from one candle to the next, careful not to cross the circle’s boundary. From her engraved wooden box, she sprinkled powders or dropped viscous liquids into the candles, whispering incantations under her breath. Plumes of green and violet smoke curled upward, trailing vile-smelling gases into the already heady mix of air.
I vaguely wondered what those vapours would do to me, but I was unconcerned.
The room echoed her whispers strangely, as though repeating them back to her.
The faintly glowing circle on the floor gained new and strange patterns, weaving between candles and around the perimeter. Strange symbols were born and writhed into place.
“There are many sources of power in this world, Archivist, and more beyond. Some are drawn to the light of these candles, but they require the smoke to remain. Fear not, they cannot penetrate the circle.”
The seventh candle she carried into the circle, its flame muted and oddly coloured. She approached the red silk–covered slab on which I lay, arms still bound over my head.
“This ritual rests on your total obedience, Archivist, which in turn requires your trust,” she spoke softly, but with deep intensity that drew forth a sense of foreboding. “Do you trust me? Trust is the only thing standing between us and oblivion.”
I looked at her perfect body shimmering in the candlelight, her voice a warm river with strong currents, the smell of her sweat hanging heavy in the intoxicating air. I was ready to pledge the rest of my days to this woman.
“I do,” was all I managed.
She took one deliberate step forward, her closeness overwhelming. The black candle in one hand, she reached out with the other to caress my chest through the coarse fibres of my librarian’s robe. With a quiet incantation and a strange gesture, her fingertips glowed briefly. The tassels holding my robe together slithered apart on their own, revealing my shuddering chest.
Sudden fear washed over me. Such magic–undefined, unplanned, and without rigid structure–was the most dangerous. Death for any but the most skilled.
She caressed my chest again, her nails slowly dragging over my bare flesh, eliciting a sweet sting.
“Your body is beautiful, Archivist, but it is not what I desire most. There is power, greater, within you. And tonight, I shall claim it.”
My body arched automatically, my erection rising higher.
Her voice hardened to flint as she issued an order: “You will not take your hands off the stone.”
Total surrender seemed imminent. Painfully hard and desperately eager for more–pleasure, pain, anything she could give. As her nails reached the top of my groin, I thought my back might snap from the arch, when she tilted the candle, letting black drops fall on my chest. The air in the room seemed to swell, the flames of the black candles growing larger.
Each drop of searing wax hit like a liquid brand, sharp and immediate. My muscles instinctively contracted. But the droplets cooled quickly, shifting from pain to a righteous throbbing warmth.
Tilting her head with gentle care, she revealed pleasure crossing her face before every dagger of falling wax was released, each drop a calculated strike that left me trembling.
“Please… more…” I whimpered, sickened by my own weakness. I was putty in her hands.
She obliged, moving from carefully measured locations on my chest to each shoulder and down my arms in turn, drawing moans and gasps of pain in equal measure. Then she worked her way up my legs.
Realising what was next, a cold shiver ran from my balls up my spine, settling into a sickening longing. She gave me a reassuring yet cruelly enticing look as she approached that most sensitive place.
I’m not sure when, but she had one hand resting comfortingly on the back of my neck. As the familiar stings reached the top of my legs, she leaned in close for a soft, warm kiss.
My mind reeled from the safety promised in those lips–my world spinning until pain suddenly seared the length of my shaft. I jerked back, gasping in agony.
She leaned close, the scent of her hair mingling with the wax as she held me against her generous bosom. “Pain,” she whispered, “is the purest conductor.”
The truth of her words echoed through the room. My eyes closed as I clung to the memory of that fading pain, like a fleeting dream.
By the time I opened my eyes, she was gone from my side, the wax cooling on my skin. She prepared more silken ties, one on each ankle, chanting inaudible words the room itself seemed to repeat. The ties glowed, slithering to tighten around my skin, threatening to break the surface, and anchored to the stone beneath me.
“The wax has prepared you, but the circle demands more,” she said quietly, eyes flicking around the shadowed room. “They always do.”
I wanted to enquire further, to understand the mechanism of the ritual, the nature of the intent that emanated from not just her or the room but the act itself. My mouth was dry, refusing my command.
She turned to face me again, holding the gleaming blade from before–cruelly twisted into seven undulating waves. Dread. Excitement. Anticipation. She took slow, deliberate steps, turning the blade in her hands as though savouring every moment.
“Your body is a vessel, Archivist,” she murmured, her voice low and coiled. “And vessels must be emptied before they can be filled.”
My breath caught as she trailed her fingers over the cooled wax, holding the deadly blade aloft. I ought to fear this. Instead, all thoughts of pain and of this terrifying figure were driven out by the rising wildfire raging in my veins. The heat of the candles had soaked into my skin, purging panic from my mind.
“Do you trust me?” she asked again.
Yes, I answered silently. My mouth stayed dry.
My body spoke for me, my chest rising to meet the tip of the blade, wrists straining against the silk restraints. A shining pearl of crimson beaded on the blade’s tip, dripping off the black wax. She smiled proudly, and for an instant, something vast and ancient and cruel flickered in her eyes.
“Good,” she whispered, and I felt an immediate surge of arousal.
The first cut was made. The blade passed through the wax like butter, and my skin offered little more resistance. Intense pain flared where she opened me, and a gust of wind burst through the closed chamber, extinguishing every candle but the strange black ones surrounding me.
“Blood is a powerful thing, Archivist. The body cannot give it willingly–it must be drawn unwillingly, yet the ritual requires it to be taken gleefully. Only then does it have meaning.” She seemed to speak to herself as much as to me. My eyes were glued to the beautiful curves of her coiled weapon, promising not just pain but something deeper–a revelation.
Anticipation swelled, waiting for more. Her eyes burned with an unnatural light, as though she could see beyond flesh to the energy thrumming within. “You feel it too, don’t you? How close we are to awakening something eternal.”
Without waiting for a response, she drew the blade over a second wax seal, splitting my alabaster flesh again. Under her nimble control, the blade danced across my chest, each stroke sparking agony hotter than the growing candle flames. My breath slipped out as something halfway between a moan and a whimper. Yet the warmth of pain seemed to drip into my core, almost comforting–like being stripped of a responsibility I no longer needed to bear. Each drop of blood carried a part of me into the circle, my fear, my hesitation, my very sense of self–leaving behind empty obedience.
“Each drop is a gift to the circle. And to me. Do you feel it, Archivist? The way it opens you, releases you from your limited flesh?” She continued to carve, opening wax and skin alike. I looked aside, watching trickling trails of my own blood gather into rivers flowing onto the crimson silk. For a moment, I glimpsed pure white threads beneath–perhaps the original colour, long buried under countless offerings. It struck me as absurdly funny, and I loosed a low, breathless chuckle.
With a flourish, she swiped the blade across my chest, deeper this time, forcing a gasp of ecstatic agony from my lungs. The room itself pulsed in response, shadows twisting excitedly, and the wounds on my skin began to glow–faintly at first, then bursting into brilliant points of light. The curved gashes slithered across my torso, each wound stitching closed and reopening as it found its proper place in a writhing pattern.
Shadows dancing around the room–illuminated only by the dull light of the towering black candles–returned my low laughter.
“I own you completely,” she said warmly, yet as a simple statement of fact.
She caressed my face with a single finger, like a mother tracing her baby’s cheek, and I realised I was openly weeping. The blade was gone from her hands, but its keen bite lingered in my mind. She leaned over me to kiss my forehead. Her fragrance overwhelmed me, her silken hair trailing over me and tugging painfully where it caught in the open wounds. Her hot breath mingled with the iron scent of blood. She traced the glowing runes carved into my body, while she pulled aside the small piece of sheer material that covered her genitals. Slowly, she revealed a pale mound over tight labia, dripping sticky fluid down her thighs. Her motions were deliberate, full of desire, savouring my anticipation.
With one fluid movement, she lifted a perfect leg over me and sat on my hips, squashing my eager penis against my stomach.
“The pain has opened you, Vessel,” she murmured, placing her hand over my chest. “The pain has opened you, but there is one final threshold to cross.”
My body was no longer my own, a puppet to her will. The pain had receded to a distant hum, replaced by a rising heat and itching power. I should have been afraid, yet all I felt was her.
She moved her hands in strange, twisting motions over my lax body, her fingers forming impossible shapes. The sigils copied each motion, sending fresh bursts of agony wherever they passed. Slowly, her warm hands moved closer to my most desperate place. My intense erection grew more urgent as she approached.
Lifting herself above me, she trailed a finger up the underside of my length, grasping me in one blood-slick hand, and used the other to spread her own quivering entrance.
Deliberately, she lowered herself onto me. The wet warmth of her touch teased at the edge of my understanding, and I exploded in pleasure. Such intense sensation spread through my body in waves, more piercing than any blade. The sigils on my skin flared brighter, the cycle of stitching and tearing playing out beneath her nails.
Her hips began to move, slow and deliberate at first, each motion igniting a new wave of ecstasy that coursed through me like wildfire. The walls seemed to tremble.
“Do you feel it, Archivist?” she murmured, her voice thick with something primal. “The power coursing through you, through me, through the circle. We are becoming more–so much more.”
As I moved within her, the chamber thrummed in time with us. The runes carved into my flesh glowed fiercely, my wounds tearing and closing in a loop of agony. She dug her nails into my chest, reopening the runes, her moans turning guttural and inhuman. Her eyes were no longer deep and unreadable, but alight with a dark lust for power.
That itching force crept into every fibre of my being, tightening until every muscle strained. I thrust higher, desperate for deeper contact with her dripping velvet heat. The itch turned to fire, and my head snapped back, neck tendons taut to the point of snapping.
Arched like a drawn bow, I could feel everything: the drugged, perfumed smoke flooding my lungs; the silk cords biting my limbs; the comforting sting of the wax burns; the raw gaps in my skin; and her fierce grip around my maddeningly full erection. The black candles’ flames rose high, producing no heat, while outside the circle the shadows and voices roared. I couldn’t take more. My climax was near, and I wanted to look into those dark eyes as I came inside her.
I forced my head down to see her. The care had vanished from her face; the passion and commanding presence had been replaced by a singular, otherworldly lust for power. Something glinted, and I saw she held the shining dagger again in both hands. I bucked and flailed, but it only drove me closer to ecstasy.
In a single heartbeat, with the flames roaring like pyres and the voices screaming unknowable secrets, that silver, gleaming blade came whistling down, plunging deep into my chest at the exact moment of orgasm. Blood burst from the wound as she pulled out the blade, spraying as violently as the seed rushing from my body. Again she plunged the knife, and again my release poured into her. Every ounce of tension, built up over the night–perhaps my entire life–erupted in a torrent of pleasure that blurred the line between my flesh and the thick air. I felt it claiming me with every pulsing beat.
Each time the cold steel found my ribs, the torrent of blood and semen lessened, along with my fear, until the thick air seemed to thin, and the flickering lights dimmed to nothing. Darkness closed in. The final thing I saw was her smiling face, spattered with my blood, looking down with pleasure and pride as she cradled my cheek.
THE END