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 Determined to find my place of hiding 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. End

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