purity scours
A quick retcon in the following closing paras:
… Your spirit brutalises hers as you fuck yourself. You tear her in half and fold her into you again and again so she can’t tell where she ends and you begin. When the blood is gone you cum, and the violence of your pleasure threatens to fall on her like a tidal wave and crush her from existence. But you hold back, keeping her like a still-life inside you.
When your breathing is back under control you lick your lips and release a long, low belch as quietly as you can. Her nightgown serves as a crude napkin. You dab at your mouth and chin as you stare at the bedroom door. The baby is crying in its room behind you, but your hunger is far too great for such fare.
You heard someone roll over in the bedroom.
A man wakes from an already shallow sleep with a sensation of loss he cannot explain. In the other room someone is trying to calm his baby, only a few weeks old. Someone? Of course, it’s Alison. The thought of her comes slowly, and with a sadness he doesn’t understand.
The room is pitch black because Alison doesn’t sleep otherwise. He keeps rolls over to check the time on his phone, lighting every facing surface in pale blue-white. A mirror on the vanity shines brightest, but twenty or so pairs of plastic eyes also glint down at him from their shelf. Ranulf shudders. Those teddies are the other reason perfect darkness is preferred in the night.
4.38am. A hope of getting back to sleep. He switches off the phone and clutches the pillow between his knees a little tighter.
Alison’s back. He didn’t notice the door move. She is a darker patch in the darkness.
“’lliam okay?” he murmurs. Showing solidarity in new parenthood. But Alison doesn’t answer.
Instead the quilt is slid off his prone body and the pillow snatched from between his legs.
“Hey, what—”
The gentle hands on his chest push him back down and forestall his question. When they trace down his ribs he breathes in, waking into and becoming more present in his body.
“Alison…”
Soft lips kiss his chest and the bed depresses with first one knee, then the other. At first too low to straddle him, they inch up the bed, chasing the hands that move to his wrists, and the invisible lips. Kisses burst like rose buds along a path to his neck.
Teeth gently work the sensitive skin at his throat, and he feels his wife’s fingernails digging into his wrists as she holds him in place. He’s already hard but grows harder with the scratch of her public hair. She angles her hips away when he bucks against her, teasing with the ghost of heat, the promise of wetness.
“Tell me you want it,” says a voice. Alison, but another, perhaps?
“What? Is that—”
A rough lick and another intimate glide steal away his question. The silence is expectant.
“… I want it, Alison. Please, … Gnnn!”
A sharp pain at the throat is matched by the engulfing swoop of her hips. He begins to struggle and then sees his wife above him, straightening up and throwing her head back as she rides him…
A man wakes from a shallow-looking sleep with a pitiable groan. You watch him in the pitch darkness.
A step towards him is halted when he reaches for his phone. Your eyesight is briefly whited out by the new illumination, but he turns his screen back off without seeing you.
You regard him, listen to the beat of his heart. Inside you another soul calls out to him. She is now wholly yours but she yearns to be close to her one-time mate.
His body holds no appeal for you beyond sustenance. But you perceive a way that everyone can be happy—you most of all. He simply has to invite you.
Why can he see Alison in the dark? Fuck, who cares. He’s buried to the root in her, gripped by merciless silk. This morning she wasn’t ready: now, her body is as hot and tight as the day they met.
He lies back as she strokes herself off with him, pinned to the bed as if by an invisible force. He longs to touch her, or at least watch the way she repeatedly impales herself on him, but when he tries to move or turn his head it’s like sleep paralysis, like something’s holding him down.
His jaw tightens as she switches the rhythm and the rock of her hips. “Yes, yes, yes,” he hears her say. No, his jaw doesn’t tighten. It’s pain, radiating like frostbite up and down his neck. He tries to shift but she sits down harder and steals his attention: two fingers frantically massage her clit and she yelps as if in agony. She never loses control like this. He can’t stop.
He keeps trying to move or turn his glazed eyes on empty space. You press your face in harder and suck the fight right out of him. You could cry, your stomach is so full. Raw blood leaks deeper inside you. But you can’t stop. You need all of him as much as you’ve made Alison need all of him.
You release a dangerous whipcrack of a belch and bite afresh. His carotid is chewed wide open but the sensation of fangs sliding into hot meat makes you wet right now.
“Yes, yes, yes, come into me, give me everything…”
His thoughts are coming slow as poured concrete. His limbs barely respond though he is harder than ever inside Alison. Priapic. He needs release more than he needs breath.
“Give it up, let go, come inside me, baby…”
Was that noise some great belch by his ear? He’s hearing things now. It was his wife. His wife who clamps her pussy to him and grinds, sending shockwaves of pleasure that steal all sanity. Fuck, why was he turned on by Alison’s belch? Or is he turned on by her queef? He doesn’t understand, only knows he has to—
“Yes!”
A crack, the world lurches sideways, and in a moment of perfect clarity he’s aware of every inch of his body.
He’s aware of how a part of him is spurting up between the pillowy lips of his wife’s ghostly pussy.
He’s aware of the snap of jaws that purposefully only grazes him, and the dread pit beyond.
He’s aware his wife’s spirit is weeping openly even as her uterus clenches around him and reels him in.
Ranulf dies and spurts his seed into air. Alison dutifully collects his soul and then lies back on the bed. She murmurs over and over, “no, no, no,” but it’s helpless to resist your will. She strokes her pregnant belly even as you lower your lips to the same little mouth that so bewitched poor Ranulf.
That fanged portal comes for him anyway. He can’t take his eye off it. A toothy grin parts to reveal heart-stopping depth, and a tongue that rolls out. Its barest touch on his wife’s clit induces the powerful, screaming orgasm that he couldn’t give her, and his loving prison contracts.
Alison explodes in pleasure and shame as she delivers her husband into your mouth. You swallow him into your blood-glutted belly, to be processed the way she was processed.
The baby whose pure cry first attracted you to this place lies sleeping in your arms. His parents stand around him, gazing in adoration. Whether it’s their presence that calms him or the steady liquid gurgling from the gut supporting your arms you don’t know. You sing him a quiet song while his parents’ blood is converted into something else and your intestines drink it down.
The child is a spark of perfection. A tabula rasa. Little marrs his new soul. Gazing at it you begin to forget the ancient corruption of the spirits you encountered.
You close your eyes and smell the baby’s head. There’s no scent like it. A squelchy gurgle reverberates up from a belly that is no longer stretched to capacity.
Just enough space. The parents step into your body. They are soaked up and destroyed.
You lift the child above your upturned face. Your body welcomes him with fangs and shining mouth. He sinks deep.
As the fabric of his body yields to yours, a sense of deep peace steals over you.