Page 15 of Snatched By the Sandman

Crying out, I push that dastardly serpent from my asshole and thrust the femur from my center.

The blood slows. The holes gutting my flesh close, sealed by whatever power he possesses.

Feeling those skin strips biting into my skin, I imagine them breaking. Within an eye blink, they unravel. And I fall.

How many times must I fall?

Nyxion catches me.

I gasp from the memory of when he caught me on the Penrose steps. His hand was both strong, yet tender. This time, it’s his whole body bearing me with this tender strength, but I sense the gravity of his lust. My skin is aflame with my own. Liquid fever heats my pussy—an intensity beyond anything I’ve ever felt.

Everything trembles in his arms. Beneath that robe, he wears a black, polished suit with eldritch markings. I breathe him in, the unbelievable scent of soulful anguish, seductive devastation, and dark wisteria.

Like a gift and a curse, he has tethered me, bringing me to this place where our souls brush one another.

Clinging to him, too alive with the pain and surrender to fall asleep—like a sun ready to shine its face after the longest night—I stare up at him and silently beg him to lift the darkness, “Nyxion.”

The next thing I know, he’s pinned me to the floor with a cloud of bone dust floating into the air. Wrenching my hands above my head and planting them against the fallen bones, he kisses me with the mouth of a corpse—as if he’s coming together, restoring himself while feeding on me, eating my mouth.

I arch my neck, my will sharper than ever despite my surrender. Sometimes to surrender takes the greatest willpower.He tastes like violent dreams and alluring nightmares. His tongue beckons mine, stabbing deeper, exploring and decorating the inside of my mouth.

Tingles of heat skitter along every inch of my body like intricate webs. All my tattoos seem to swirl to life, burning stars and bleeding hearts beneath my flesh.

Nyxion’s possession, his power, and dominance—everything is the highest of highs I’ve ever chased. No, he’s chasing me, and I’m falling into him, fading into him. The heat of his slabbed body, this fortress of a chest, conquers me. The steel bulge beyond his pants grinds against me, introducing me to a new level of longing.

When he breaks from the kiss, I choke, my lips parting in a silent scream at the vicious and beautiful effigy staring back at me. It’s overwhelming and painful to look at him.

In another moment, his clothes are gone.

His rich brown skin glows with an inner light, smooth and flawless, like polished mahogany under a soft moonlit glow. His deeply hooded eyes, smoldering and intense, gleam like black diamonds, their depth and mystery pulling me in, vowing untold stories and secrets.

His physique is herculean, each bulging muscle carven from some godly force—both destructive and healing. His dark hair falls in lustrous, silky curls to his shoulders—with a few rebellious locks cascading over his cheeks and brow, framing his face in a way that can only be described as meticulously wild. A shadow of stubble adds a rugged edge to his chiseled jaw and full, sensual lips, which curve into a knowing, almost mischievous smile.

It’s as if a seraphim sculpted his features, carved from some celestial marble with precision and care. His presence is commanding yet elegant, a perfect balance of raw power and refined beauty.

Most awe-striking are the beautiful, black membranous wings spread wide, their texture and form both delicate and formidable, like the wings of a dark angel.

The tattoos adorning him seem to shift and change at his whim. The ink flows and transforms until the living art mirrors my tattoos.

In a mesmerizing display, he takes my ink into himself until we share the designs. They weave seamlessly as if my blood has merged with his essence, bound in flesh and spirit.

I open my mouth, but no words come out.

With a wry smile and lust darkening his eyes, he descends, feathering kisses along my throat and tasting the remnants of my blood. Electric sparks shoot down my spine wherever he kisses, tongues, or touches me. My pelvis rocks, demanding and uncontrollable.

He licks at my nipples, sucking them and the piercings one at a time into his mouth. I twist in his grip and writhe when he lowers his tongue into my navel.

When his thumb rubs the place with all my hypersensitive nerves, I buck, then scream from his teeth sinking into my pelvis. He stabs two fingers inside me at the same time.

“Enough!” I suck in deep breaths and stare down at him, deadpanning with those black-diamonded eyes. “Please…” I whisper through fresh tears.

“So sweet.” He touches the tips of his fingers to my tears. “Such lovely tears. Did you know tears have anatomy? A language of their own. Small puddles sharing warmth represent overwhelming grief and pain. Scattered tear droplets represent intermittent crying, emotional instability. I love your tearful narrative, Zenya. How they stream down your face to symbolize your emotional release. A preoccupation of tears and their story is called dacryphilia. What a story you have to share with me!”

Who knew the God of Nightmares could be so…poetic?

He retrieves his fingers and sucks upon them before diving between my legs and pulling apart my lips, spreading me wide. “So vulnerable. So human.” The God of Nightmares studying me only deepens the throbbing ache inside me until I’m drowning in my own fluids.

I whimper at the sight of those serpents slithering toward me. Paralyzed by my hunger, this excruciating pleasure, I cage a scream as those serpents each circle a breast, plumping them before their forked tongues lick spirals around my nipples, flicking my piercings. My hips rise.

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