My entire body aches suddenly, as if I’m being stretched in every direction at once. My blood feels hot; my eyes sting.
The thing stands from the bed, towering at an unnatural height, its long, thick cock standing hard, ridged, and covered in a fluid I do not recognize. It begins to walk toward me.
Its movements are effortless in the hot air that surrounds us, as if the room around it isn’t yet aware of its presence and has not yet been disturbed.
Each step it takes is another heart palpitation in my chest, and if I could back up without falling down the steep stairs, I would.
I can’t run; I can’tmove. The sharp, shrill voice is keeping me frozen in this spot, whether in fear or through some unknown power.
This thing isnothuman. It looks like a demon.
Atlas makes another whimper from the bed, and, somehow, I pick it up over the sound of the screaming.
I can’t leave him here at the hands of this thing. If I manage to unstick my feet and run, it will most likely go back to brutally pounding into him.
Full to the brim with fear and determination, with pain coursing through me, I extend a hand and shove open the door fully. The creature is now a few feet in front of me.
“Leave,” I demand, though I can barely make out my own shaking voice over the unhinging of its jaw, its scream filling the space around me.
The creature becomes louder; Atlas twitches from where he lies.
“Leave,” I repeat, more forcefully this time, taking a step forward.
Everything in me is screaming that I run, that I hide, that thisthingcould very well kill me. But I can’t; I can’t leave him here.
The aching inside of me begins to dull, my blood cooling slightly.
The creature cocks its head, the screaming gradually dying out as its jaw stays unhinged eerily. I take another step.
Something is tickling the back of my mind, urging me on now that I’ve decided to stay. As if I can do this, as if I can fight this inhuman being and force him out.
Just as I’m consideringhowI can do that, it makes one last sound of warning, one that makes my skin crawl and my stomach turn, before it walks backward until it’s shrouded in the darkness of one corner of the room, and then it’s gone.
The air around me cools by a few degrees, and that sinister feeling disappears. The ache fades away, my blood no longer simmering.
On the bed, Atlas makes a pathetic whining noise.
I race to his side, flipping him over with my sudden burst of desperate energy. He’s covered in his own come, bright red scratches covering his chest and his swollen nipples. His hair is matted to his forehead with sweat, and his limbs twitch softly.
Scooping him up into my arms, I take him to his bathroom. Atlas is burning up, hotter than the temperature of the room, even.
I run a cold bath, keeping him cradled to my chest. Once it’s full, I slowly set him into it, watching as his features relax from a grimace to an expression of relief.
I need to cool him down; I need to wash him.
Suddenly, there is a very intense, deep-rooted certainty that I need toprotecthim. From this pain, from his own shame, from thatthing.
I wash him gently, taking my time and thoroughly rinsing any mark I see on his body. He has quite a few. I keep my eyes on his face as I wash his more intimate areas, giving him some semblance of privacy, and Atlas’s face twists into that of pleasure as I run the rag over his entrance.
He is incredibly beautiful, even like this. If the situation were even slightly different, I fear I’d get hard again.
Once Atlas is cleaned, I wrap him in a large, soft towel and carry him to his bed, ripping his duvet off the mattress and tucking him under the sheet.
He looks peaceful now, with no grimace of pain or furrowed brow. The smooth planes of his face are relaxed and content as I sit next to him and watch him sleep silently.
It suddenly occurs to me that Atlas may not have been awake that entire time.
Whatwasthe thing? AmIdreaming?
