bite me

---

“Come to me.”

You kneel beside your bed. Worn carpet scratches at bare knees.

“Come to me.”

Your elbows dip into the mattress as you clasp your hands together, a rosary tangled through cold fingers.

“The guardian angel.”

It hurts your neck, the way you crane your chin up towards heaven. The moon hangs in the sky, bright and taunting, and so far away, yet its light blinds you. You stare back at it—longingly, defiantly— through the white curtain draped over the window.

You will be answered.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“A spirit of comfort.”

Every night you get on your knees before God and beg. You beg for your savior. You beg for a purpose, for something, anything to light a path for you to follow.

You feel lost,

alone.

You feel desperate.

There’s nothing for you anymore.

“Come to me.”

You feel someone watching you.

Your eyes snap open. The small hairs on your body stand pin straight. Goosebumps raise across your arms, your shoulders, your legs. It’s like the ghost of a cold, wet tongue, licking up your spine.

A cloud moves across the sky then, obscuring the moon—your only confidant—from you. You’re left in still, motionless darkness. Nothing stirs. Even your curtain halts its gentle swaying with the midnight breeze. You sit in it for a moment. Everything is quiet. No rustling of the trees outside, no scuffling of the critters you knew lived in your attic. Time seems to stop. Not even your clock ticks.

The moment passes, slowly, viscerally, like a birth, and once it’s passed, the darkness begins throbbing. Like a heart, it pulsates around you, pumping more and more darkness into the space. You can’t bear to look over your shoulder, but you feel it there.

A presence. His presence.

He’s finally come to answer your prayers and yet all you can feel is your racing heart, a fear far stronger, and more intense than even your agony, as it bubbles up inside of you. You meet that fear with guilt. It melts into you like fat. You shouldn’t fear, you know that much.

“The Lord is my shepherd;” You hush, frantic under your breath.

“I shall not want…”

Psalm 23. You continue your rushed whispering of it, but the dread doesn’t go away.

“…I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”

You pause, and it is in that brief moment of silence you hear it.

The darkness is breathing.

Deep, shallow breaths in, and long shaky breaths out. It’s strained, like a wounded animal. Chugging. You are reminded briefly of a moment from your childhood, when your father hit that deer on the backroads. Even now you can still see the way it twitched in pain. Its death was a brutal one with sprayed chunks of meat, and cracked bones but you found comfort in knowing it was in heaven now. Painless. Free. Just as you longed to be.

It’s obvious to you now that you aren’t as alone as you thought you were. You know, technically you’re never alone. God’s always with you. But this confirmation, the steady exhale fanning against your bare neck, this was what you’d been praying for.

You bite your tongue, rationalizing as the moonlight reappears. It’s pale and innocent. God’s light, you think. For the first time in so long you feel something other than the unbearable weight of your own loneliness. You feel hope, and it’s scary, but God’s wisdom can be startling. Change is never easy, but the courage of the Lord is your courage, so you muster up every drop of it within you to turn around.

You scan over the space before landing on it. If you hadn’t been looking, you were sure you’d have missed it. Amongst the shadows of your room, crooked as they cast across your wall, and dripping over picture frames and through corners, stood the shape of a man. Its body is lean, nothing but inky darkness in the center of your room, save for the gleam of two pinhole eyes. The gasp that leaves you is involuntary, but you apologize almost immediately. A quick and stuttered “forgive me.”

With your rosary pressed to your heart you turn to face it fully, rising on wobbly legs to sit at the edge of your bed. It squeaks beneath your weight, and the sound feels thunderous in the quiet of the night. The air is syrupy as it cocks its head at you, beady eyes scrutinizing. The silhouette of loose, shaggy hair falls to one side.

That’s when it comes to you. The word: Angel. God’s messenger. You know in that moment, that he stands before you to deliver the Lord’s sacred word. You’ve found favor with God.

Don’t be afraid. It—he?—orders. You don’t see a mouth move, you just hear the voice, deep and groping as it reaches out in an echo. It caresses the shell of your ear. It scrapes the inside of your skull.

The breeze blowing through your window gently jostles the dark impression of a cape flowing down his back.

“You’re an angel?” You ask. Your voice sounds small, insignificant in comparison to his. He closes the distance between the two of you. His walk is smooth, otherworldly. He moves with the fluidity of water, but he ripples like an oil slick. He looms over you now, so close he almost brushes your knee, and you let yourself wonder what that would feel like. The phantom black touch of an angel.

You crane your neck to look at him. It feels rude to sit in the presence of an angel, but he hasn’t requested that you stand so you remain where you are.

If the Lord wills, we will live and do this or that.

James 4:15

This isn’t the first time you’ve spoken to me, is it? His voice is playful, bordering on mocking. He already knows. He’s the one who answered your call, after all. His words feel like sweat. They trickle down your neck, and bead at your forehead. Your hands are clammy as he waits for your reply.

You nod.

Nuh-uh. You see the impression of him shaking his head, his shoulders move up and down with the low rumble of laughter. Use your words. I know you can, with all that begging and whining you’ve been doing.

You’ve upset him. You’re wasting his precious time. But the way he speaks, stern and slinking…your body acts against your better judgement, your thighs pressing together as you find there’s a sinful heat growing between them. You silently admonish yourself, tightening your grip on the rosary until you can feel the crucifix press indents into your palm. More pain.

“I pray every night.” You say shakily, and truthfully.

Now he’s the one nodding. He hums in contemplation, and you swear it makes the darkness shudder around you. His form is incorporeal. It seeps in and out of its shape in front of you, like blood in water. The room smells smokey, like blown out birthday candles, despite the night being clear and lucid. It’s becoming suffocating as slender fingers reach out and grab your chin. They’re pitch black and ice cold as they hold you in place. They don’t feel particularly remarkable, they just burn, the way an ice cube does if you hold it for too long. You hold your breath.

He moves your chin slowly, lazily—like he’s bored already—from left, to right, getting a good look at either side of your face. Why do you pray, huh?

A question with far too many answers. As a kid you would race to your room after school and cry for a pair of the cool new sneakers the popular girls wore. You’d pray for longer hair, passing grades, a sunny day, world peace. Once you were in your teens, you’d pray for the attention of one of the cute football boys, then when you finally got it, you’d pray that he’d actually break up with his girlfriend. You often prayed for forgiveness; forgiveness for not being nicer, for being ungrateful, for being selfish, for defiling yourself beneath your bed sheets at night.

Nowadays, your loneliness leads your prayers. Your emptiness. There’s a hollow, gaping hole where your heart used to be, and when you’re not feeling the twisting claws of pain, of sadness gutting you, or the seething fire of anger you can’t control, you feel nothing. You pray to be free of this pain, free of the resentment, the hatred that you have for those who don’t feel an ounce of what you do. You pray to be filled, filled with the wisdom of God, with purpose, with love, and light. You want to float like a cloud in heaven.

You’re sick of being alone?

The angel’s voice, slick and viscid, shakes you from your thoughts. Did you say all of that out loud? Are you so crazy now that you don’t even know when you’re actually speaking? Your mind is a cage—no—a stone, cold, prison cell, and you want out before you doom yourself further to hell.

You nod again in response. His grip on your chin is bruising, impatient, it rattles your brain until you remember to say, “yes.”

His hand falls from you, disappearing into the black mass of his body. You can feel that throbbing of the darkness again, like a stinging headache it pounds just between your eyes. It presses down against your chest. Then, so delicately that you fear you might be imagining it—in the sick and devastating way that you do—it pulses between your legs. Your face warms, and you feel caught, delirious, as it stares down at you with those needle pointed eyes. They’re sharp, unsettling, but you can’t look away.

I can make you feel good. He says, much less like an offer than a simple statement of fact. Your eyes widen, big and teary. He can cure you, unshackle you from your affliction, your heartache. You almost cry in relief at just that, but instead you fall to your knees before him, grabbing and clawing at the darkness of him desperately as you plead, plead, plead for your salvation.

Heal me, O Lord, and I shall be healed; save me, and I shall be saved: for thou art my praise.

Jeremiah 17:14.

“Please.” You beg yet again. “I’ll do anything. Please.”

Ah, you would, wouldn’t you.

Tears fall freely down your face now. Months, years of pent up frustration—agony—pours out all at once. You wish your tears could be useful somehow, not just an indulgent display of your own despair. You’d fill dry rivers with them if you could. You’d quench the thirsty. Put out wildfires.

It appraises you for a moment, your pathetic sniffling bouncing off the walls of the quiet bedroom. He’s teasing you. You know God works in mysterious ways, but you’d never have thought him to be cruel, teasing…If you’re made to wait any longer for another word you may very well die right there, feral and desperate at the foot of one of his soldiers.

You can’t bring yourself to imagine what you must look like. You were never a pretty crier. You press your forehead into the shadowy stretch just above where his knee should be. It’s firm, like the leg of a real person, with stronger muscles than what you’ve known anyone to have. Your tears disappear into his body, floating away into nothingness like puffs of smoke. The sulfuric smell of him fills your head, and for a second you imagine yourself suffocating to death in a housefire.

It shifts out of your reach, and you slump, bowing at the altar of him, your hands falling flat against the old carpet with a sad thump. You feel him move, and then a gentle caress meets the underside of your chin. It sends a chill through your body. For the second time tonight, goosebumps spread across your skin. You let the cold hand guide your head up. Through teary eyes you swear you see a white grin spread across its empty face.

I want your shame.

It’s a statement. He’s not asking permission, but you nod anyways. Exhausted. You can feel the atmosphere twist and churn around you, like a stomach digesting. You can barely hear him. His voice is a low gargle in your head. All you can hear is the pounding sound of your heart pumping blood throughout your body. Like you’re aware of every pint of it, burning through your veins, and hot in your face. His fingertips crawl up your chin. They’re slow and deliberate as they push against your lips.

Let me in.

There’s no hesitation. You obey, and his fingers taste like ash against your tongue. You’ve never felt like this before. You feel like a toaster, cracking and sizzling in a bathtub. That lighting sensation shoots down your spine. Raw, divine, pleasure. You can’t help but moan. It’s muffled, and embarrassing, but he was right. It feels good.

A groan echoes around you, staggered, and spinning around your head like a gong. It’s not your own, and it makes you lightheaded. He pumps his fingers lazily in and out of your mouth. They reach as far back as they can go, making your eyes water but you don’t care. Your thighs wobble, and knees chafe against the carpet as he keeps going. You’re a havoc of whimpers as your eyes flutter shut.

No. Look at me.

Its voice shakes you.

Open your eyes or I’ll stop.

You pry your eyes open. You hadn’t realized you were crying. You want more. You’d cry for more, and then you’d cry when you got it. Selfishness be damned. You’ll cry when you want. And you aren’t the only one that’s weeping. Your cunt aches and sobs beneath those tiny pajama shorts you’re wearing. It soaks through your panties, and you can feel the thin cotton. Wet. Stuck to you.

When he speaks it’s humorously, satisfied.

You like this, don’t you? You like having your mouth fingerfucked.

It’s not really a question. It’s an observation. You do like it. You like it so much that you’re mewling beneath him, eyes glossy and rolling to the back of your head. You groan. It’s broken, practically a sob. When have you been so shameless? When did the rosary slip from your hand? You feel the beads crush beneath your knee as you squirm, squeezing your legs together chasing the friction your clenching pussy wants so, so, badly. As you cry, spit gathers at the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin and mixing with the salty tears that run hot down your face.

So messy.

He hums, then brings his other hand to the back of your head, where he gently strokes your hair. He touches you the way one would a scared animal. Tentatively, soothingly, reassuringly. You hadn’t realized how much you needed this. Physical touch. Although, it’s unclear how physical he is. The image of him ebbs and flows, like watercolor, all the while he’s leaning in and whispering to you, words that have you breathless, and sticky with sweat.

So filthy for me. Your greed is disgusting, you know? And all you want is more.

You choke on his fingers, trying to speak. Yes. You want to scream. He gags you, pushing his fingers further. Yes, please, more. It’s all you want.

He yanks his fingers from your mouth. It’s a grand, wet, gesture. Drool strings and stretches between your lips and his knuckles. You gasp, filling your lungs with newfound oxygen. Breathing him in, it feels like huffing incense. You can feel him in your chest and burning in your nostrils. He cradles your cheek. His touch is like a feather’s, as you pant for air.

“Yes.” You finally manage, pawing at his leg, dizzy off him. “I want more please.” Your voice is breathless as he slots his leg between your thighs. He presses his shin firmly against you. You whine, high pitched and needy, not thinking as you grind down onto him. His body’s shocking, flush to yours, cool and minty even through your clothes, and lingering in your mouth like toothpaste. Your center drags over him, your body knowing exactly what it wants even when your brain is too stupid to tell it.

Soft knuckles pet your face, brushing through your tear tipped lashes. He’s so tender with you it has you drooling and rutting against his leg faster, frantic for the feeling of him. You don’t expect him to fist his other hand into your hair and snap your head back to look at him. A sob catches in your throat. The sharp pain sends a jolt of arousal straight to your cunt, and you can feel yourself, drenched against him.

His coos are lust fogged, and slurred, taunting.

Awe…so, so, sad.

He shakes his head in mock sympathy.

So alone. This is all you needed, right? To be a gross, messy, slut, humping me through those stupid fucking panties like a whore?

You tighten your grasp on him, hips stuttering, and back arching with the way his body feels beneath you. Your fingers dig in, clutching onto the reality of him. He’s solid, tangible, for all intents and purposes real, and yet he’s nothing but a phantom, pitch black and colorless. You wish you could see him; the look on his face when those piercing eyes point down at you, the color of his hair as it cascades down either side of his face, the way the slippery mess of you would glitter on his leg in the moonlight. You want to see all of him. You want to know that this isn’t some figment of your perverted imagination. A twisted dream conjured up by your own fucked up subconscious.

“I-I prayed…ngh, I prayed for you.” You’re hiccupping through your words. “Every night,” A gasp. “I w-waited…fuck.” You’re on the verge of tears again as he tugs your head back further, your scalp stinging. “I waited for God to answer.” It’s a shattered moan of a confession, and it’s met with a laugh. The sound is creamy and sinister.

God?

There’s a bite in his tone. Like the word is acid on his tongue. You can’t bring yourself to talk anymore. Every last ounce of your attention is on chasing the pressure that’s building torturously at your center.

God’s not here. He sounds angry.

It should startle you, worry you, even frighten you. But you’re too crazed to care. In fact, the revelation spurs you on even more. You’re like a wild animal, hips moving recklessly. So close. You’re almost there. You feel maniacal, grinning up at him, staring into those eyes--empty, unfeeling. The moan that escapes you is comically pornographic. It barely clicks with you that he’s speaking again.

Stop. He says.

This isn’t an angel. It’s hilarious how disappointing the fact is to you. Of course he’s no angel. Of course, God hasn’t come to save you. You. You? Why would God save someone as vile as you? The worse you feel about it, the less you question what the thing is, and the funnier it all becomes.

I said, stop.

He’s ordering you around again, but you don’t care. You’re far too occupied with the task of getting yourself off, and the laugh that’s barreling from you.

Now, the works of the flesh are manifest.

You’re cackling now, possessed by your own lust and shame. You don’t know where one ends and the other begins but you’re starting to think that it doesn’t matter. Why must you separate them?

He yanks you up by your hair. Get up.

You can barely stand. Your legs wobble, threatening to buckle beneath you, and your head spins from being hauled to your feet so fast. You’re still laughing—or crying— again, it’s all the same to you, when he places a hand on either side of your face, holding you still. You don’t fight it, you just stand there, in his hold, shoulders rocking with every tragic sob you make.

Shhh… He's being suspiciously gentle with you again. His thumb stokes your temple and wipes away the tears staining your cheeks. You’re unsure how long you’ve been standing there by the time your breathing settles and the tears being to slow, your crying finally subsiding.

There’s no one else coming for you. It’s just me. I’m your God now.

It’s unclear to you whether he means it as a comfort, but either way, in the moment it feels like it. You don’t know what he is but it’s far too late to care. You can’t even see his mouth as it leans down and connects with your own. He kisses you powerfully, taking his time, as if he’s savoring it. Darkness swirls around you. You can feel the tendrils slip past your lips. You both moan as his tongue licks into your mouth. It’s all consuming, intimate, the way the void engulfs you, arms of darkness wrapping around your body and crushing you to him. You feel whole. Like he’s holding together the broken pieces of you.

Heavy are your eyelids as you kiss him. They fall shut, and you’re sighing against his lips. He tastes like metal, the way your mouth does after the dentist, when you’re left spitting crimson into your sink for a few days. His hands roam your body as he devours you. He’s kissing you like he’s starving, like he’s drinking every last drop of your sadness until there’s none left, like he lives off it.

With two hands on your hips, he pushes you into your bed, pulling away only to watch the surprise on your face when you fall back onto the mattress. You stare up at him, the air knocked out of you. In the dim glow of moonlight that’s leaking in through the window, you wonder what he would look like if he were real—no—human.

What would his hair color be? Not red, surely. Definitely not blonde, that’d be ridiculous. He’d have brown hair, the perfect brown that looks almost black but would glint warm catching in the light as he falls on top of you. You’re caged in by his arms as his mouth meets yours again. He brings the rest of his body onto the bed, and you spread yourself wide, making room for him to kneel between your legs.

His eyes would be blue. Not piercing and cold, but soft. A powder blue. The color of a clear day, or a childhood bedroom. You lift your hands to his face, your eyes screwed shut as you imagine the boy—cotton soft and tender beneath your touch—that he feels like he could be. His lips wouldn’t be hard and chilling, but plush and warm. You wouldn’t hiss at the flavor of him, bitter and biting. No. He’d taste like something sweet. Like vanilla icing, or the sweet cream of a milkshake he’d just taken a sip of.

His hand snakes down your front, dipping through the valley of your chest and trailing further towards the hem of your shorts. You shudder as his fingertips dance there, teasing. His lips pull away to brush your pulse, just beneath your jaw, where he then leaves delicate kisses. They’re slow, compassionate. If you knew what love was, you might even say they’re loving. But you don’t, so you push that thought aside as he finally gets his hand into the cramped space of your shorts.

He’s licking hot stripes up the base of your throat as he applies a sharp strip of pressure to your center. The groan that leaves him is satisfactory and rumbles there onto your skin. You gasp, your hips jolting up to meet the shallow circles he’s making over the damp fabric of your underwear.

Does anyone else know how soaked you get? Or does this pussy only cry for me?

Your teeth clamp down onto your own hand, leaving half-moon indents in your wake.

His fingertips perimeter the pretty seam of your panties, and your hands scramble for purchase on his back once he pushes them aside and starts rolling over your clit. He’s in no rush. He draws pathetic whimpers from you like he has all the time in the world.

You squirm. If he had any flesh, you’d be cutting deep with the way you cling to him, your nails buried into his shoulders. You’d draw blood as he rubs bliss into your needy cunt. The dark tresses of his hair tickle your collarbone as he peers down between your legs and yanks your underwear off the rest of the way, leaving you bare under his sinister gaze.

It feels too good to worry about what he must see when he lifts his head to look at you. Your mouth’s agape, panting for more.

You want my fingers again?

You nod, whining at the mere mention of them, your eyes red-rimmed and glassy.

Where? He asks, and it’s so frustrating that he won’t just give them to you, that he wants to make you work for them. Haven’t you been through enough? Don’t you deserve at least this? You huff, annoyed, pulling him closer. You want him impossibly close. You want him inside you. You tell him as much but that gets you nowhere.

Pray to me.

“What?” You’re snappy, impatient. It seems to amuse him with the way his laugh puffs hot air across your cheek. Your hips jolt but he holds them down firmly with his free hand, tsking your temper.

Pray for it like you did before. Pray to me, and I’ll give it to you.

You grumble and throw your head back into your pillow—a minor tantrum—before resigning.

“Please—” you pant. “I—I need your fingers in…ah—in me. Please.”

It’s as if the pads of his fingers move slower in response. The sound you make is humiliating, devastated. You want to kick and scream and demand he gives you what you want. You want to fight to get your way, you want to go to war for it—the way boys do.

Nuh, uh. He tightens his grip on your hips in emphasis. What you prayed to me for. Why I’m here.

It takes a second for you to understand what he wants from you. Then you remember. Your shame. That’s what he wants, and like some kind of masochist it makes your head spin. If he wants your despair, he can have it.

“My loneliness.” You sigh. “Take it—ah, take it from me.” He’s already picking up his pace, running tight circles around your nerves and applying more pressure as you continue. “I feel so alone.” You confess, strained. “So…sad. Please—oh—please save me.” You can feel the wet mess you’ve already made as he spreads it over the lips of your pussy. You’re lightheaded. Your heart’s a racehorse, and it tightens as you beg—no—pray to him. “I’m suffering.” You sob, choked up, with those delicious tears that he loves slipping past the corners of your eyes. “Please—please free me from it.”

There’s no warning before he’s shoving two fingers into you. A startled cry rocks you, broken and guttural as his fingers plunge further, to the knuckle. Your pussy’s eating him up, clenching tight and possessive around him. You’re so wet it’s no trouble for him at all as he sets the pace, fucking you brutal and deep.

So good for me. Ask me nicely like that, and I’ll give you anything you want.

The wet sounds your pussy makes are obscene, a cacophony of sticky noises as he pumps in and out of you, your hips jerking as the pleasure fogs your brain. You accompany those sounds with your broken moans. Sentences are impossible as the English language is suddenly lost on you. All you can manage are the stuttered please’s and slurred thank you’s that spill from your lips. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. With every thrust, until your clit is throbbing for more friction, and you’re dripping onto the mattress below.

Hear how sloppy you are? The way you’re gushing on my fingers while I stretch out this tight fucking cunt?

You have the audacity to blush at his words despite the decorum you’ve noticeably lost all sense of as you buck helplessly into his hand. He fucks you fast, and his fingers defy humanity, reaching so deep inside you, you fear you’ll never be satisfied by anyone else ever again. Your hands circle around his wrist. His skin is like cool metal beneath your hands, which are flushed hot and clammy. You hold him inside you, rutting against his palm where it hits your clit perfectly, winding the coil in your abdomen tighter, and tighter, and tighter.

You’re so needy for release it’s starting to hurt, and God, he’s ramming you. Your body jostles with each punishing snap of his wrist. The stretch begins to burn and ache. You chase that stimulation. The dull pain sends shocks of arousal through you like waves. The air’s so thick in your room, it’s like he’s holding a pillow over your face.

“Harder.” You gasp. You want more. The pain you begged him to take away, it needed to be replaced with something else. A different pain. Something delicious. He honors his word with a moan, giving you exactly what you want. There’s no second-guessing. No hesitation. He fucks you ruthlessly, lacking all of the warmth and concern that humans have. He does that until you cum, shaking, your limbs spasming, and throat raw. You scream like you’ve been stabbed. You slump like you're bleeding out.

He removes his fingers, and it’s like pulling out an arrow, making you wince. You lay there, your heart pounding, and body melting into the mattress, satisfaction buzzing through you from your head to your toes. Your thighs still tremble, and you can feel the wetness between them, warm and spent.

Sunlight creeps over the horizon miles away beyond your bedroom window. At some point you feel the presence of him dissipate with the daylight. It's only then, as that light trickles in through your curtain does the exhaustion hit you. Your eyelids are heavy with it, but it’s not suffocating. It’s not choking you, drowning you, or holding you under. You curl in on yourself, pulling a blanket against your sweat slicked body, and pressing it into your chest. You feel airy, floating, weightless, as light as heaven.

You’re too tired to question the reality of what’d happened, who had touched you. And you don’t really care, because the darkness is gone. You can see every corner of your room in luminous clarity. He’d stolen what plagued you. Every breath feels like your first. You let this new air—cleaned, renewed—fill your lungs. The impending morning smells dewy and fresh as it wafts into your room, the misty beginnings of rain pour.

Finally, you let your eyes fall shut. You’re met with darkness again. Except this time, it’s different. Familiar. Pure bliss. You sigh, content, succumbing to it.

As the sweet song of sleep gently sweeps you away, you swear you can feel it there: a hot and heavy breath just below your ear, and a slow kiss goodnight.

---

“Come to me.”

You kneel beside your bed. Worn carpet scratches at bare knees.

“Come to me.”

Your elbows dip into the mattress as you clasp your hands together, a rosary tangled through cold fingers.

“The guardian angel.”

It hurts your neck, the way you crane your chin up towards heaven. The moon hangs in the sky, bright and taunting, and so far away, yet its light blinds you. You stare back at it—longingly, defiantly— through the white curtain draped over the window.

You will be answered.

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“A spirit of comfort.”

Every night you get on your knees before God and beg. You beg for your savior. You beg for a purpose, for something, anything to light a path for you to follow.

You feel lost,

alone.

You feel desperate.

There’s nothing for you anymore.

“Come to me.”

You feel someone watching you.

Your eyes snap open. The small hairs on your body stand pin straight. Goosebumps raise across your arms, your shoulders, your legs. It’s like the ghost of a cold, wet tongue, licking up your spine.

A cloud moves across the sky then, obscuring the moon—your only confidant—from you. You’re left in still, motionless darkness. Nothing stirs. Even your curtain halts its gentle swaying with the midnight breeze. You sit in it for a moment. Everything is quiet. No rustling of the trees outside, no scuffling of the critters you knew lived in your attic. Time seems to stop. Not even your clock ticks.

The moment passes, slowly, viscerally, like a birth, and once it’s passed, the darkness begins throbbing. Like a heart, it pulsates around you, pumping more and more darkness into the space. You can’t bear to look over your shoulder, but you feel it there.

A presence. His presence.

He’s finally come to answer your prayers and yet all you can feel is your racing heart, a fear far stronger, and more intense than even your agony, as it bubbles up inside of you. You meet that fear with guilt. It melts into you like fat. You shouldn’t fear, you know that much.

“The Lord is my shepherd;” You hush, frantic under your breath.

“I shall not want…”

Psalm 23. You continue your rushed whispering of it, but the dread doesn’t go away.

“…I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”

You pause, and it is in that brief moment of silence you hear it.

The darkness is breathing.

Deep, shallow breaths in, and long shaky breaths out. It’s strained, like a wounded animal. Chugging. You are reminded briefly of a moment from your childhood, when your father hit that deer on the backroads. Even now you can still see the way it twitched in pain. Its death was a brutal one with sprayed chunks of meat, and cracked bones but you found comfort in knowing it was in heaven now. Painless. Free. Just as you longed to be.

It’s obvious to you now that you aren’t as alone as you thought you were. You know, technically you’re never alone. God’s always with you. But this confirmation, the steady exhale fanning against your bare neck, this was what you’d been praying for.

You bite your tongue, rationalizing as the moonlight reappears. It’s pale and innocent. God’s light, you think. For the first time in so long you feel something other than the unbearable weight of your own loneliness. You feel hope, and it’s scary, but God’s wisdom can be startling. Change is never easy, but the courage of the Lord is your courage, so you muster up every drop of it within you to turn around.

You scan over the space before landing on it. If you hadn’t been looking, you were sure you’d have missed it. Amongst the shadows of your room, crooked as they cast across your wall, and dripping over picture frames and through corners, stood the shape of a man. Its body is lean, nothing but inky darkness in the center of your room, save for the gleam of two pinhole eyes. The gasp that leaves you is involuntary, but you apologize almost immediately. A quick and stuttered “forgive me.”

With your rosary pressed to your heart you turn to face it fully, rising on wobbly legs to sit at the edge of your bed. It squeaks beneath your weight, and the sound feels thunderous in the quiet of the night. The air is syrupy as it cocks its head at you, beady eyes scrutinizing. The silhouette of loose, shaggy hair falls to one side.

That’s when it comes to you. The word: Angel. God’s messenger. You know in that moment, that he stands before you to deliver the Lord’s sacred word. You’ve found favor with God.

Don’t be afraid. It—he?—orders. You don’t see a mouth move, you just hear the voice, deep and groping as it reaches out in an echo. It caresses the shell of your ear. It scrapes the inside of your skull.

The breeze blowing through your window gently jostles the dark impression of a cape flowing down his back.

“You’re an angel?” You ask. Your voice sounds small, insignificant in comparison to his. He closes the distance between the two of you. His walk is smooth, otherworldly. He moves with the fluidity of water, but he ripples like an oil slick. He looms over you now, so close he almost brushes your knee, and you let yourself wonder what that would feel like. The phantom black touch of an angel.

You crane your neck to look at him. It feels rude to sit in the presence of an angel, but he hasn’t requested that you stand so you remain where you are.

If the Lord wills, we will live and do this or that.

James 4:15

This isn’t the first time you’ve spoken to me, is it? His voice is playful, bordering on mocking. He already knows. He’s the one who answered your call, after all. His words feel like sweat. They trickle down your neck, and bead at your forehead. Your hands are clammy as he waits for your reply.

You nod.

Nuh-uh. You see the impression of him shaking his head, his shoulders move up and down with the low rumble of laughter. Use your words. I know you can, with all that begging and whining you’ve been doing.

You’ve upset him. You’re wasting his precious time. But the way he speaks, stern and slinking…your body acts against your better judgement, your thighs pressing together as you find there’s a sinful heat growing between them. You silently admonish yourself, tightening your grip on the rosary until you can feel the crucifix press indents into your palm. More pain.

“I pray every night.” You say shakily, and truthfully.

Now he’s the one nodding. He hums in contemplation, and you swear it makes the darkness shudder around you. His form is incorporeal. It seeps in and out of its shape in front of you, like blood in water. The room smells smokey, like blown out birthday candles, despite the night being clear and lucid. It’s becoming suffocating as slender fingers reach out and grab your chin. They’re pitch black and ice cold as they hold you in place. They don’t feel particularly remarkable, they just burn, the way an ice cube does if you hold it for too long. You hold your breath.

He moves your chin slowly, lazily—like he’s bored already—from left, to right, getting a good look at either side of your face. Why do you pray, huh?

A question with far too many answers. As a kid you would race to your room after school and cry for a pair of the cool new sneakers the popular girls wore. You’d pray for longer hair, passing grades, a sunny day, world peace. Once you were in your teens, you’d pray for the attention of one of the cute football boys, then when you finally got it, you’d pray that he’d actually break up with his girlfriend. You often prayed for forgiveness; forgiveness for not being nicer, for being ungrateful, for being selfish, for defiling yourself beneath your bed sheets at night.

Nowadays, your loneliness leads your prayers. Your emptiness. There’s a hollow, gaping hole where your heart used to be, and when you’re not feeling the twisting claws of pain, of sadness gutting you, or the seething fire of anger you can’t control, you feel nothing. You pray to be free of this pain, free of the resentment, the hatred that you have for those who don’t feel an ounce of what you do. You pray to be filled, filled with the wisdom of God, with purpose, with love, and light. You want to float like a cloud in heaven.

You’re sick of being alone?

The angel’s voice, slick and viscid, shakes you from your thoughts. Did you say all of that out loud? Are you so crazy now that you don’t even know when you’re actually speaking? Your mind is a cage—no—a stone, cold, prison cell, and you want out before you doom yourself further to hell.

You nod again in response. His grip on your chin is bruising, impatient, it rattles your brain until you remember to say, “yes.”

His hand falls from you, disappearing into the black mass of his body. You can feel that throbbing of the darkness again, like a stinging headache it pounds just between your eyes. It presses down against your chest. Then, so delicately that you fear you might be imagining it—in the sick and devastating way that you do—it pulses between your legs. Your face warms, and you feel caught, delirious, as it stares down at you with those needle pointed eyes. They’re sharp, unsettling, but you can’t look away.

I can make you feel good. He says, much less like an offer than a simple statement of fact. Your eyes widen, big and teary. He can cure you, unshackle you from your affliction, your heartache. You almost cry in relief at just that, but instead you fall to your knees before him, grabbing and clawing at the darkness of him desperately as you plead, plead, plead for your salvation.

Heal me, O Lord, and I shall be healed; save me, and I shall be saved: for thou art my praise.

Jeremiah 17:14.

“Please.” You beg yet again. “I’ll do anything. Please.”

Ah, you would, wouldn’t you.

Tears fall freely down your face now. Months, years of pent up frustration—agony—pours out all at once. You wish your tears could be useful somehow, not just an indulgent display of your own despair. You’d fill dry rivers with them if you could. You’d quench the thirsty. Put out wildfires.

It appraises you for a moment, your pathetic sniffling bouncing off the walls of the quiet bedroom. He’s teasing you. You know God works in mysterious ways, but you’d never have thought him to be cruel, teasing…If you’re made to wait any longer for another word you may very well die right there, feral and desperate at the foot of one of his soldiers.

You can’t bring yourself to imagine what you must look like. You were never a pretty crier. You press your forehead into the shadowy stretch just above where his knee should be. It’s firm, like the leg of a real person, with stronger muscles than what you’ve known anyone to have. Your tears disappear into his body, floating away into nothingness like puffs of smoke. The sulfuric smell of him fills your head, and for a second you imagine yourself suffocating to death in a housefire.

It shifts out of your reach, and you slump, bowing at the altar of him, your hands falling flat against the old carpet with a sad thump. You feel him move, and then a gentle caress meets the underside of your chin. It sends a chill through your body. For the second time tonight, goosebumps spread across your skin. You let the cold hand guide your head up. Through teary eyes you swear you see a white grin spread across its empty face.

I want your shame.

It’s a statement. He’s not asking permission, but you nod anyways. Exhausted. You can feel the atmosphere twist and churn around you, like a stomach digesting. You can barely hear him. His voice is a low gargle in your head. All you can hear is the pounding sound of your heart pumping blood throughout your body. Like you’re aware of every pint of it, burning through your veins, and hot in your face. His fingertips crawl up your chin. They’re slow and deliberate as they push against your lips.

Let me in.

There’s no hesitation. You obey, and his fingers taste like ash against your tongue. You’ve never felt like this before. You feel like a toaster, cracking and sizzling in a bathtub. That lighting sensation shoots down your spine. Raw, divine, pleasure. You can’t help but moan. It’s muffled, and embarrassing, but he was right. It feels good.

A groan echoes around you, staggered, and spinning around your head like a gong. It’s not your own, and it makes you lightheaded. He pumps his fingers lazily in and out of your mouth. They reach as far back as they can go, making your eyes water but you don’t care. Your thighs wobble, and knees chafe against the carpet as he keeps going. You’re a havoc of whimpers as your eyes flutter shut.

No. Look at me.

Its voice shakes you.

Open your eyes or I’ll stop.

You pry your eyes open. You hadn’t realized you were crying. You want more. You’d cry for more, and then you’d cry when you got it. Selfishness be damned. You’ll cry when you want. And you aren’t the only one that’s weeping. Your cunt aches and sobs beneath those tiny pajama shorts you’re wearing. It soaks through your panties, and you can feel the thin cotton. Wet. Stuck to you.

When he speaks it’s humorously, satisfied.

You like this, don’t you? You like having your mouth fingerfucked.

It’s not really a question. It’s an observation. You do like it. You like it so much that you’re mewling beneath him, eyes glossy and rolling to the back of your head. You groan. It’s broken, practically a sob. When have you been so shameless? When did the rosary slip from your hand? You feel the beads crush beneath your knee as you squirm, squeezing your legs together chasing the friction your clenching pussy wants so, so, badly. As you cry, spit gathers at the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin and mixing with the salty tears that run hot down your face.

So messy.

He hums, then brings his other hand to the back of your head, where he gently strokes your hair. He touches you the way one would a scared animal. Tentatively, soothingly, reassuringly. You hadn’t realized how much you needed this. Physical touch. Although, it’s unclear how physical he is. The image of him ebbs and flows, like watercolor, all the while he’s leaning in and whispering to you, words that have you breathless, and sticky with sweat.

So filthy for me. Your greed is disgusting, you know? And all you want is more.

You choke on his fingers, trying to speak. Yes. You want to scream. He gags you, pushing his fingers further. Yes, please, more. It’s all you want.

He yanks his fingers from your mouth. It’s a grand, wet, gesture. Drool strings and stretches between your lips and his knuckles. You gasp, filling your lungs with newfound oxygen. Breathing him in, it feels like huffing incense. You can feel him in your chest and burning in your nostrils. He cradles your cheek. His touch is like a feather’s, as you pant for air.

“Yes.” You finally manage, pawing at his leg, dizzy off him. “I want more please.” Your voice is breathless as he slots his leg between your thighs. He presses his shin firmly against you. You whine, high pitched and needy, not thinking as you grind down onto him. His body’s shocking, flush to yours, cool and minty even through your clothes, and lingering in your mouth like toothpaste. Your center drags over him, your body knowing exactly what it wants even when your brain is too stupid to tell it.

Soft knuckles pet your face, brushing through your tear tipped lashes. He’s so tender with you it has you drooling and rutting against his leg faster, frantic for the feeling of him. You don’t expect him to fist his other hand into your hair and snap your head back to look at him. A sob catches in your throat. The sharp pain sends a jolt of arousal straight to your cunt, and you can feel yourself, drenched against him.

His coos are lust fogged, and slurred, taunting.

Awe…so, so, sad.

He shakes his head in mock sympathy.

So alone. This is all you needed, right? To be a gross, messy, slut, humping me through those stupid fucking panties like a whore?

You tighten your grasp on him, hips stuttering, and back arching with the way his body feels beneath you. Your fingers dig in, clutching onto the reality of him. He’s solid, tangible, for all intents and purposes real, and yet he’s nothing but a phantom, pitch black and colorless. You wish you could see him; the look on his face when those piercing eyes point down at you, the color of his hair as it cascades down either side of his face, the way the slippery mess of you would glitter on his leg in the moonlight. You want to see all of him. You want to know that this isn’t some figment of your perverted imagination. A twisted dream conjured up by your own fucked up subconscious.

“I-I prayed…ngh, I prayed for you.” You’re hiccupping through your words. “Every night,” A gasp. “I w-waited…fuck.” You’re on the verge of tears again as he tugs your head back further, your scalp stinging. “I waited for God to answer.” It’s a shattered moan of a confession, and it’s met with a laugh. The sound is creamy and sinister.

God?

There’s a bite in his tone. Like the word is acid on his tongue. You can’t bring yourself to talk anymore. Every last ounce of your attention is on chasing the pressure that’s building torturously at your center.

God’s not here. He sounds angry.

It should startle you, worry you, even frighten you. But you’re too crazed to care. In fact, the revelation spurs you on even more. You’re like a wild animal, hips moving recklessly. So close. You’re almost there. You feel maniacal, grinning up at him, staring into those eyes--empty, unfeeling. The moan that escapes you is comically pornographic. It barely clicks with you that he’s speaking again.

Stop. He says.

This isn’t an angel. It’s hilarious how disappointing the fact is to you. Of course he’s no angel. Of course, God hasn’t come to save you. You. You? Why would God save someone as vile as you? The worse you feel about it, the less you question what the thing is, and the funnier it all becomes.

I said, stop.

He’s ordering you around again, but you don’t care. You’re far too occupied with the task of getting yourself off, and the laugh that’s barreling from you.

Now, the works of the flesh are manifest.

You’re cackling now, possessed by your own lust and shame. You don’t know where one ends and the other begins but you’re starting to think that it doesn’t matter. Why must you separate them?

He yanks you up by your hair. Get up.

You can barely stand. Your legs wobble, threatening to buckle beneath you, and your head spins from being hauled to your feet so fast. You’re still laughing—or crying— again, it’s all the same to you, when he places a hand on either side of your face, holding you still. You don’t fight it, you just stand there, in his hold, shoulders rocking with every tragic sob you make.

Shhh… He's being suspiciously gentle with you again. His thumb stokes your temple and wipes away the tears staining your cheeks. You’re unsure how long you’ve been standing there by the time your breathing settles and the tears being to slow, your crying finally subsiding.

There’s no one else coming for you. It’s just me. I’m your God now.

It’s unclear to you whether he means it as a comfort, but either way, in the moment it feels like it. You don’t know what he is but it’s far too late to care. You can’t even see his mouth as it leans down and connects with your own. He kisses you powerfully, taking his time, as if he’s savoring it. Darkness swirls around you. You can feel the tendrils slip past your lips. You both moan as his tongue licks into your mouth. It’s all consuming, intimate, the way the void engulfs you, arms of darkness wrapping around your body and crushing you to him. You feel whole. Like he’s holding together the broken pieces of you.

Heavy are your eyelids as you kiss him. They fall shut, and you’re sighing against his lips. He tastes like metal, the way your mouth does after the dentist, when you’re left spitting crimson into your sink for a few days. His hands roam your body as he devours you. He’s kissing you like he’s starving, like he’s drinking every last drop of your sadness until there’s none left, like he lives off it.

With two hands on your hips, he pushes you into your bed, pulling away only to watch the surprise on your face when you fall back onto the mattress. You stare up at him, the air knocked out of you. In the dim glow of moonlight that’s leaking in through the window, you wonder what he would look like if he were real—no—human.

What would his hair color be? Not red, surely. Definitely not blonde, that’d be ridiculous. He’d have brown hair, the perfect brown that looks almost black but would glint warm catching in the light as he falls on top of you. You’re caged in by his arms as his mouth meets yours again. He brings the rest of his body onto the bed, and you spread yourself wide, making room for him to kneel between your legs.

His eyes would be blue. Not piercing and cold, but soft. A powder blue. The color of a clear day, or a childhood bedroom. You lift your hands to his face, your eyes screwed shut as you imagine the boy—cotton soft and tender beneath your touch—that he feels like he could be. His lips wouldn’t be hard and chilling, but plush and warm. You wouldn’t hiss at the flavor of him, bitter and biting. No. He’d taste like something sweet. Like vanilla icing, or the sweet cream of a milkshake he’d just taken a sip of.

His hand snakes down your front, dipping through the valley of your chest and trailing further towards the hem of your shorts. You shudder as his fingertips dance there, teasing. His lips pull away to brush your pulse, just beneath your jaw, where he then leaves delicate kisses. They’re slow, compassionate. If you knew what love was, you might even say they’re loving. But you don’t, so you push that thought aside as he finally gets his hand into the cramped space of your shorts.

He’s licking hot stripes up the base of your throat as he applies a sharp strip of pressure to your center. The groan that leaves him is satisfactory and rumbles there onto your skin. You gasp, your hips jolting up to meet the shallow circles he’s making over the damp fabric of your underwear.

Does anyone else know how soaked you get? Or does this pussy only cry for me?

Your teeth clamp down onto your own hand, leaving half-moon indents in your wake.

His fingertips perimeter the pretty seam of your panties, and your hands scramble for purchase on his back once he pushes them aside and starts rolling over your clit. He’s in no rush. He draws pathetic whimpers from you like he has all the time in the world.

You squirm. If he had any flesh, you’d be cutting deep with the way you cling to him, your nails buried into his shoulders. You’d draw blood as he rubs bliss into your needy cunt. The dark tresses of his hair tickle your collarbone as he peers down between your legs and yanks your underwear off the rest of the way, leaving you bare under his sinister gaze.

It feels too good to worry about what he must see when he lifts his head to look at you. Your mouth’s agape, panting for more.

You want my fingers again?

You nod, whining at the mere mention of them, your eyes red-rimmed and glassy.

Where? He asks, and it’s so frustrating that he won’t just give them to you, that he wants to make you work for them. Haven’t you been through enough? Don’t you deserve at least this? You huff, annoyed, pulling him closer. You want him impossibly close. You want him inside you. You tell him as much but that gets you nowhere.

Pray to me.

“What?” You’re snappy, impatient. It seems to amuse him with the way his laugh puffs hot air across your cheek. Your hips jolt but he holds them down firmly with his free hand, tsking your temper.

Pray for it like you did before. Pray to me, and I’ll give it to you.

You grumble and throw your head back into your pillow—a minor tantrum—before resigning.

“Please—” you pant. “I—I need your fingers in…ah—in me. Please.”

It’s as if the pads of his fingers move slower in response. The sound you make is humiliating, devastated. You want to kick and scream and demand he gives you what you want. You want to fight to get your way, you want to go to war for it—the way boys do.

Nuh, uh. He tightens his grip on your hips in emphasis. What you prayed to me for. Why I’m here.

It takes a second for you to understand what he wants from you. Then you remember. Your shame. That’s what he wants, and like some kind of masochist it makes your head spin. If he wants your despair, he can have it.

“My loneliness.” You sigh. “Take it—ah, take it from me.” He’s already picking up his pace, running tight circles around your nerves and applying more pressure as you continue. “I feel so alone.” You confess, strained. “So…sad. Please—oh—please save me.” You can feel the wet mess you’ve already made as he spreads it over the lips of your pussy. You’re lightheaded. Your heart’s a racehorse, and it tightens as you beg—no—pray to him. “I’m suffering.” You sob, choked up, with those delicious tears that he loves slipping past the corners of your eyes. “Please—please free me from it.”

There’s no warning before he’s shoving two fingers into you. A startled cry rocks you, broken and guttural as his fingers plunge further, to the knuckle. Your pussy’s eating him up, clenching tight and possessive around him. You’re so wet it’s no trouble for him at all as he sets the pace, fucking you brutal and deep.

So good for me. Ask me nicely like that, and I’ll give you anything you want.

The wet sounds your pussy makes are obscene, a cacophony of sticky noises as he pumps in and out of you, your hips jerking as the pleasure fogs your brain. You accompany those sounds with your broken moans. Sentences are impossible as the English language is suddenly lost on you. All you can manage are the stuttered please’s and slurred thank you’s that spill from your lips. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. With every thrust, until your clit is throbbing for more friction, and you’re dripping onto the mattress below.

Hear how sloppy you are? The way you’re gushing on my fingers while I stretch out this tight fucking cunt?

You have the audacity to blush at his words despite the decorum you’ve noticeably lost all sense of as you buck helplessly into his hand. He fucks you fast, and his fingers defy humanity, reaching so deep inside you, you fear you’ll never be satisfied by anyone else ever again. Your hands circle around his wrist. His skin is like cool metal beneath your hands, which are flushed hot and clammy. You hold him inside you, rutting against his palm where it hits your clit perfectly, winding the coil in your abdomen tighter, and tighter, and tighter.

You’re so needy for release it’s starting to hurt, and God, he’s ramming you. Your body jostles with each punishing snap of his wrist. The stretch begins to burn and ache. You chase that stimulation. The dull pain sends shocks of arousal through you like waves. The air’s so thick in your room, it’s like he’s holding a pillow over your face.

“Harder.” You gasp. You want more. The pain you begged him to take away, it needed to be replaced with something else. A different pain. Something delicious. He honors his word with a moan, giving you exactly what you want. There’s no second-guessing. No hesitation. He fucks you ruthlessly, lacking all of the warmth and concern that humans have. He does that until you cum, shaking, your limbs spasming, and throat raw. You scream like you’ve been stabbed. You slump like you're bleeding out.

He removes his fingers, and it’s like pulling out an arrow, making you wince. You lay there, your heart pounding, and body melting into the mattress, satisfaction buzzing through you from your head to your toes. Your thighs still tremble, and you can feel the wetness between them, warm and spent.

Sunlight creeps over the horizon miles away beyond your bedroom window. At some point you feel the presence of him dissipate with the daylight. It's only then, as that light trickles in through your curtain does the exhaustion hit you. Your eyelids are heavy with it, but it’s not suffocating. It’s not choking you, drowning you, or holding you under. You curl in on yourself, pulling a blanket against your sweat slicked body, and pressing it into your chest. You feel airy, floating, weightless, as light as heaven.

You’re too tired to question the reality of what’d happened, who had touched you. And you don’t really care, because the darkness is gone. You can see every corner of your room in luminous clarity. He’d stolen what plagued you. Every breath feels like your first. You let this new air—cleaned, renewed—fill your lungs. The impending morning smells dewy and fresh as it wafts into your room, the misty beginnings of rain pour.

Finally, you let your eyes fall shut. You’re met with darkness again. Except this time, it’s different. Familiar. Pure bliss. You sigh, content, succumbing to it.

As the sweet song of sleep gently sweeps you away, you swear you can feel it there: a hot and heavy breath just below your ear, and a slow kiss goodnight.