Page 12 of Snatched By the Sandman

“I will give you points, my little killer.” I make my way behind her to her delectable ass. Tonight, the raven and dove feathers will bleed. “It’s the first time a soul has played with me. I wonder how you would respond to a hunt, but that may come later…after our business here.”

We both know her energy is unstable and mad with the volatility and passion I require. I wish for her to break, to shatter, then fall. Fall hard for me until I rebirth her to become my perfect slave. Her mortality is in my hands, and I will take her mind to whatever depths I desire.

For I am worse than all the demons in hell—and more beautiful than the shining hosts of the heavens.

“Who are you?” she demands as I spin three serpents into a braided whip with a femur bone as the handle.

I listen to her ragged breath and rise higher as she slowly inclines her chin at the barest angle of seeking me. She cannot with her vision fractured from the mask.

Positioning the serpent ends to strike their tongues along the seam of her ass, I sweep my power until she feels me everywhere. And shivers, giving me the first drop of blood. It glides along her collarbone, a delicious crimson tendril.

Leaning in, I whisper, “I am the feverish chill crawling along your spine, little dreamer. I am the weight on your chest when you battle with the terrors of night. I am the spider creeping along the boundary of your eyelashes. The black dream, the Frightener who will carry you to the realms of the Abyss and watch as you look inside until you show me your fear and your deepest and darkest secrets.”

“Tell me!” she shrieks from two needles cutting into her spine, dripping a line of blood down her back.

Chilled breath curling across her ear, I proclaim in a whisper I transcribe in her mind like my ominous calligraphy.I. Am. Nyxion. The. God. Of. Nightmares. Welcome to my realm, child most sweet and strange.

She screams so prettily.

She bleeds beautifully.

Her mind surrenders so adoringly.

But she hasn’t fallen yet. She refuses to make it past the stumbling block forbidding her to break. Whenever she faints, triggering the needles to sink in, it’s like a succulent ambrosia. This height of surrender before I wake her and begin the process again.

By now, I’ve rid myself of my outer robe, finding it too cumbersome. After all, we are in the eleventh hour. I admire her high level of pain tolerance. Her mind is a flawless vessel of sweet violence. I know better than most. She plays a convincing role on social media, even if all her drama-seeking fans are waiting for her to snap.

I’d rather see her break.

Sweat flows into her cuts, licking salt into the wound, intensifying the pain while I give her enough pleasurable torment to keep her on a high of endorphins and adrenaline.

I swing the whip, smiting her ass again, admiring the bloody feathers and how I’ve permitted the raven and dove to come to life in a pecking war.

Her pheromones shower the air, practically drenching my senses. Her need rages inside her. Harder than ever, I’ll credit myself for lasting this long, given how much my balls wish to explode inside her. Not until she begs.

She’s cried. She’s gritted her teeth to the breaking point and given me such lovely fractures and blood trickling from the sides of her mouth.

I’ve numbed some of the pain with their venom, giving her the torment of a more intense tattoo. And the pleasure of the devil worshiping an angel.

I heal her. She bleeds for me.

Draping the whip along the seam of her bleeding ass, I direct the serpents to lick at her essence. An extension of me, they gift me the taste of her drippy arousal mixing with the dark opiate of her blood, such a sweet addiction.

I keep her on the edge of insanity. On the brink of such heights of bliss. She will beg soon.

Once I swing the serpents, whipping at her clit before directing them to lick at the puckered, pink ring of her asshole, she yelps. “Oh, god, haven’t you had enough?” she screeches through gritted teeth. “You know torture never yields accurate results? Ahh!” Yes, she would know that, wouldn’t she?

I grin right at her as she screams from my serpents having split to latch onto her pretty nipples, their fangs penetrating her flesh.

Merciless, I direct the third serpent to slap at her swollen, needy clit once more. They alternate between those stinging strikes and licking circles without giving her release.

“What did I ever do to you?” she spits out, those tear-lashed eyes blazing in the darkness. “Are you going to keep decorating me with spilled blood, chipped teeth, and fractured bones until I’m your tortured masterpiece?”

“And what a canvas you are for my palette of nightmares,” I say, my voice deeper than ever. “You are not a victim. You are my muse. Your pain is my art. You will be my greatest creation.”

“Don’t act like you’re doing me some favor.”

“Hardly,” I snort, eject the fangs from her nipples, and lower my mouth to capture one bloody bud.

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