Guest post 10: Ren Warom

New guest post: Demon by Ren Warom. I’ve been friends with Ren for awhile. She is a delightfully filthy woman with the sensuous naughty streak that fills the void where a mortals heart would be. There is an underlying sweetness to the icor  of her soul, and I suspect that somewhere locked deep inside there actually is a very nice girl. Don’t tell her I said that though, because she’ll spank the shit out of me. On second thought....

Ren has the most interesting writing style you will ever encounter. He writing tends to fall into the steampunk genre and she pours filth and degeneration onto the page in a ceaseless staccato that forces our fat unused American brains to actually (*gasp*) think.

When you read this it isn’t necessary to say it all with a British accent, but thinking about her bee-stung lips and glowing black eyes twinkling with evil delight is guaranteed to arouse.

Her blog, the Umwelt,  has some of the most fantastic writing you can find on the shithole called the internet. It took a lot of time to woo her with demonic sacrafices full of virgins and ancient toothless hookers (she likes the duality) to finally pry her legs open and force the birthing of this story. I won’t bore you with the details of our coupling, such happiness is mine alone. I still wear the scars with pride.

Now, with much pride and abject terror, I give you the doubtless bacchanalian festivities of Guest post 10:

Demon

By: Ren Warom

Fat, black cluster fly lands on a curve of glistening white. Settles with two spastic hops. Starts to preen. He sucks breath down to tight, moist balls. Leans forward. Such anticipation.

Nothing. The eye doesn’t twitch, doesn’t blink.

An acid weight of fury unwinds in thick coils to settle at the base of his spine. He thought, till now, she’d finally comprehended the game. But she’s given up instead. Deserted he and the game both.

Weak. So weak.  So disappointing.

He tilts his head. Movement abrupt as a fly hop. Incurious green eyes gaze into the blank circle of blue under the fly’s arse. Empty colour. No spark of life. Not even a fizzle. So disappointing.

Teeth grind into the silence.

He’s not done playing. Balls still tight. Blood still fresh. Such luscious pools of it to be spilt. To smooth, warm and sensual, across aching flesh. Not sated. Not fucking sated. Stupid little bitch.

Too late to punish her now. She won’t feel it.

Wants to fuck her whilst the blood’s still warm. But it’s without gratification. No point cleaving into dead flesh. Can’t witness the exquisite arching of her body away from heavy thrusts. Her fading cries, those soft whimpers, so satisfying. He moans.

‘Stupid little bitch.’

Can’t even fuck himself to make it better. There’ll be none of that sweet horror to bloom in ravaged blue as he scoops a handful of dark red, liquid heat to cover his hot, aching cock. No awareness of degradation as spools of silky white spatter her face, those cornflower blue eyes, in long, agonising spurts.

Such possibilities. Lost.

He rises. One long jolt of movement. Graceful even after hours sat cross-legged. Suffers only one further look at the spread-eagled remnant of human waste.  He’s almost too sickened by her to bear it.

Just a ragged, naked doll. Unworthy.

Red stains, bruises, patchwork her inner thighs. His artwork. Puncture wounds, shallow slices, deep gaping cuts, criss-cross delicate ribs, young plump breasts. Smears and slicks of blood, personal as a signature. So beautiful.

How swiftly she abandoned her beauty.

The clarified butter blonde of long, silky hair lies bloodied and tattered as a banner on a battlefield. He feels as if it’s he who’s lost. He hates her for that. For her rush to surrender. They could have fought such wars together.

The fly stirs, burrs upwards.

The abyss of her eye stares through laser bands of dusty sunlight. Mute. Devoid of expression. It was glorious filled with fear, with pain. It revolts him now. His face twitches. Disgust. Contempt for her weakness. He turns his back on the lifeless blue of the eye.

They never wait long enough. Never last long enough.

Buzzing mindless voice of the fat-arsed fly follows him like an admonition. He pauses on the threshold. Listens. Nods. He’ll choose again, do better next time. The new one will last; she’ll give him every pleasure. He’ll make sure of it.

#

He stands in the shade of a trio of beeches. Twisted branches weave to a single canopy. Light dapples between the gaps, illuminates his face, but he can’t move. He’s spellbound. Frozen to the ground by the sheer beauty of her.

Perfection. Pure, angelic perfection.

In the midst of a colourful group. Child birds, fledglings, so vulnerable, so unaware. All laughing, shrieking, talking at once. She’s a quiet note. Clearly the epicentre of their storm of noise, antics. All for her. To gain her attention. Her admiration.

He understands their desperation. She’s perfect.

So small. A touch younger than his usual. Her breasts mere beginnings. Barest hint of mounds beneath the crisp front of her tee. But she’s pure, sensual grace from battered yellow sneakers to the top of that shining fall of ebony.

Such liquid, erotic rhythms in her movement.

She stalks the pavement sleek as a yearling kitten amongst the fledglings. All long limbs, innate elegance. She glides. Shimmers. Eyes a shade or two lighter than his but jewel bright, so aware. So full of self, of light.

An unbroken flame.

Sun flashes off bluest magpie highlights in that ebony fall as she flicks it behind her shoulder. It blinds him. He’s dazzled. Must have her. Can’t rest, sleep, eat, until she’s his.

A profound sense of belonging fills him.

He knows she’d feel it too were she aware of him as he is of her. A recognition. It travels his skin faint and prickling as static. She’s what he’s been searching for. He’s wasted so much time on inferior flesh. But this one’s an equal.

They are connected.

He shadows her as she moves through the streets. Sun brightens and dims to dusk. Small coterie of colourful fledglings gradually peel away until she walks alone. A single note of flawless harmony. Quiet sneakers pat the pavement soft as fingers on flesh. He shivers as though it’s his. Realises he intends to take her tonight.

It’s never been so urgent.

He senses the strength in her. She can slake the endless rage of need within him. He knows it. After so long, so many failures, he cannot wait another moment to claim her. And oh, what he’ll show her in the days to come.

A surfeit of magnificent abominations.

He’ll teach her how her flesh bends to his. How it breaks. He’ll show her that there are few limits to what a body can take, even if it’s in denial. And she will last, this one. This fantasy of silk and stealth.

She will reward his patience with endurance.

She stops. Turns. Hesitant. Does she hear his thoughts? He’s enchanted. Watches from inky shade as she stands, head cocked to the wind. Listening. Her eyes gleam emerald in the darkness. Hungry. She’s as needy as he is.

A faint call from the distance.

‘Ari?’

The girl pivots. Balletic grace. Calls in a voice as lyrical, melodic, as her movement. ‘Coming, ma.’

#

Night. That bottomless silence. The echoing cathedral of darkness, pierced by a thousand stars sharp as blades, encloses him. Enfolds. He wears it like a suit. Moves within it as if an extension, a fold of sky upon the ground. Glides stealthy as the moon to where he scents her.

She smells of untapped potential. So pure.

He’s watched the house all evening. As dusk deepened to full dark. As stars pinpricked through the black. As a slow yellow moon rose within it all. Listened to the subtle sounds of night time ritual. Clinking of plates. Light conversation. The tinny voice of television. Saccharine.

Empty calories for the mind.

Her window is cracked open to the soft night air. A ghostly swathe of net flutters out into a barely there breeze. It’s as if she’s waiting for him to come to her. He smiles. Climbs through the gap, so swift and stealthy he makes no sound at all.

Stands in the cool darkness of her room.

Above him a fan whirrs, he can feel the breeze; hear the susurration of blades through still air. He pads over to her bed. The luxurious drop of silken ebony spills over the pillow, toward the floor. A fall of dark liquids. Her skin glows, calls to his touch, but he resists.

First they must be alone.

The needle is fine as her hair. Her skin twitches ever so lightly as it slides in and a low moan of noise slips from between her lips. He breathes the sound into him, it sparks within his chest. Blossoms. Opens out to such a sharp agony of hot, molten need. Exquisite.

He touches a fingertip to her lips. ‘Ssssh.’

Her breathing slows, deepens, her body slumps into the mattress. Lax, compliant. He caps the needle. Pulls back the covers and gathers her into his arms. She rests there. Such an insignificant weight. So fragrant, so delectable.

This time, it will be he that is consumed.

His eyes bleed stark white in the gloom. Wide pallid pupils around a pinpoint of black. Her scent rises up. She smells like him. A feline scent. Cold, dark and dangerous. One of his own. He wonders how long it will take her to realise it, to turn the game against him.

The suspense is unbearably sweet.

He rests her body into the crook of one supple, sinewy arm. Reaches down. He’ll leave behind only the needle itself, placed on the pillow just so. It holds no trace of him; he has no such traces to shed. No fingerprints, no skin flakes, no DNA. But it is the message he likes to leave.

It says She is mine now.

© Ren Warom 2011

Ren Warom is the author of this blog which you need to check out. It keeps the demons in Brittan where they belong.

She is also writing a novel called COIL that I know nothing about but wanted to mention.

Make sure you leave the gorgeous Ren a comment. She loves to laugh at the piteous thoughts of us mortals.