Page 62 of Priest and his Anarchist

His reply comes as a whisper against my neck. “No. I couldn’t.”

“Why?” I ride into his touch. My body spins into a ball of gold as his thumb brushes my clit.

With a firm hold on my thighs, he lifts me off the floor and transports me across the room. His wet tongue is merciless as it flattens against my clit. I direct him further against me. I want his anger. His wrath. I want it all. I want him to use all the fury he’s held all these years and fuck me with it the same way he does his tongue.

He continues to circle the entrance of my pussy. I arch myself into him, and using my body as a roadmap, his tongue pursues the crevices up to the crux of my clit. He works the angle in fast movements, maintaining pressure and speed as sweat slides down my chest and the first wave crashes over me. My knees buckle as he works me up like a toy, twisting until I’m coiled so tight there’s no going further. This time, when he releases, it’s harder than the first.

The warmth of his mouth is replaced by cold metal, the pain coming too fast. Panic surges, tightening my chest the same way his hand does my throat.

“Pri—”

“Shhh….” His words fade in and out. In and out. “Go to sleep.”

The pain is no more. Numb, and touches I can’t feel. Not now.

Maybe not as much as I thought I should.

“Am I going to die?”

The room moves around me as I try to clear my vision. Leaning up, I try to see better, but smudges of red fill my vision.

He dips down to my pussy, circles of the game of torture with each surge of pleasure.

“Yes, pretty girl.” He crawls up my body. Lashes line the dark pits of his eyes, so thick they’re the first thing I noticed. Blood covers his mouth like lipstick as he leans forward to kiss me. “Yes, you’re going to die.”

Tears roll down my throat. He flashes a white tube in front of my face. “But first, you’re going to take this.” He’s so beautiful. I hate he’s mean and cruel. Fourteen hours ago, I was dancing in the club with friends.

Now, I sit in the darkest room I’ve been in but cannot touch the depth of evil beneath him. Why didn’t I see it before?

It’s blinding.

A small piece of white chalk is between his fingers. Does he want me to draw something? I don’t know why I am afraid. He hasn’t hurt me. He has done nothing I didn’t want him to do, but there’s something achingly sad about how I know. This kind of darkness isn’t one that comes from something banal, like what happens when you meet a stranger in the club before realizing he’s an evil man.

It’s not that.

I can feel the evil, but deep inside, maybe he doesn’t want to be.

Delusional. That’s how I ended up here to begin with.

“Go on.” He gestures to the wall behind me, rolling onto his elbows and spreading his leg wide. When I turn to look over my shoulder, and my eyes collide with his, he holds my attention.

“Draw. Then come ride my dick.”

My stomach flips, excitement edging my fingertips. Maybe he won’t… perhaps this is his kink, and he likes…dark rooms of death.

Swallowing, I turn back to the canvas in front of me, breezing over the words and drawings already in white. Images of sunflowers, amethyst eyes, a strange house, a stick figure.

The chalk in my hand slowly turns to dust the more it rolls between my fingers.

He doesn’t love you.

Pretty girls bleed pink.

If I told you to run, wouldn’t you?

Don’t follow his lead. Rabbits jump to dodge their lies!

Beautiful fucking liar. Prick.

---