Tuesday, September 27, 2016

Day Four: What's the Most Dangerous Part of Having Sex With the Beast?

The body that was discovered when I first found the Beast was a clue to the true design of the Beast's nature. The Beast, as it were, was dying. It laid upon the ground, a slowly dissolving vessel of madness. The great chains that once held it in place clung to a husk. Blackness and malaise slithered out of it, running along slowly loping cement towards the drain.

But the body? The body was changing. The thick ichor of the Beast's body hugged the man's skin, infested the putrefying intestines and set them to rights. His body did not smell so much as death as it did of acid. I didn't dare to touch the body. I waited until I was certain. It would become the Beast. Even as strange insects carried away the last of the Beast's filth and the body breathed life into itself, I couldn't bring myself to end it.

The nudity had been a clue. I should have known. I think I did know. I think I whispered it within my mind. There was a price to this Beast. Becoming.

Even now as the Beast fills me, be it with languid tongue or rigid cock, I can feel that precipice of madness edge closer. Nails and teeth dig into my flesh, leaving blood in its wake. The Beast has not killed me. Nor would it. It would infect me. A claw too deep or a tooth too eager and I would not be dead, for death becomes the Beast.

The cement is rough on the skin, leaving burns and scratches as it pulses inside of me. The black eyes meet mine, no glimpse of human in either of us, and I know my future is certain. It will make me the next Beast. Less I kill it first. But I cannot.

I cannot.

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