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9
ARIE
The cavern around me is eerily sinister by comparison to his astral, otherworldly form. It’s difficult to make out, but in the dim light, I think I perceive sadistic, chattering skulls garbed in flames, though I know I can’t trust my perceptions, and that any and all parts of this might be idle hallucinations.
My hands wander up to the horns that grow from this creature’s brows. They are rigid but still, they vaguely remind me of skin. They feel soft to the touch, although I know that they could penetrate through my bones with little effort.
In his four piercing blue eyes wreathed in crimson, my mind finds peace. I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life.
This entity will ferry me to my new destiny, safeguarding me from the treacheries of the desert and the violent whims of my former captors. I have been called to worship him, admiring his strange, ethereal body.
My hands trace over his pectorals, just grateful to touch him. Their tough, sculpted mass guides my hands down to his well-defined abdominal muscles, which twitch at the mere sensation of my touch.
Reaching lower, I can almost perceive his member, which shines brightly, the glare concealing its shape. The light emitting from him burns my eyes, and I instinctively look away, shielding my retinas.
I want to see it.
I know that’s bad, but just being able to touch this divine being where he is most intimate…
The idea rouses my mind and stirs my loins.
“That is enough,” he says, in a harsh and disciplining voice. “I want you to show me the depths of your commitment.”
I nod in return, acknowledging his demands. Why would I rebuke him? This may be my only chance at salvation.
This can’t be real. Can it?
“What would you like me to do?”
He smiles wickedly, all four of the eyes on his face squinting in a sneer. I watch in fascination as they squint simultaneously.
“Yield to me,” he growls. “Succumb to my might.”
I look into his glowing, pupil-less eyes.
“Do what you want with me,” I say, smiling.
I am ready to be punished.
His claws move to my shoulders, where he begins to stroke me, digging into my muscles with force as his wrists trace my contours.
“This clothing interferes,” he says.
With no preamble, he rips the fabric at my shoulder, coming just short of clawing into my flesh.
“You don’t need it anymore.”
I can’t help but gasp.
For years, I have worn the same clothing, soaking it in cavern water and herbs. My clothing is sacred to me. I was never taught to make clothing, and I don’t know if I’ll ever reach civilization again.
Having it so casually torn unhinges me.
He scowls in response to my surprise.
“I thought you said you were ready for me,” he says before a look of disappointment forms. “If you need, I can take you back to the desert, where perhaps a wurm might have its way with…”
“No,” I say with a fire. “I will not.”
