apex crow

Is it the moon? you ask yourself. Something about waxing gibbous brings the devil out in you. Like a man driven by a motor you leave your hotel with no plan, only an unfocused, hollow need. You hunger. For sex, companionship, blood, flesh—it’s unclear. On nights like this you could devour the world.

You’re an attractive man so you find interest in most of the bars you walk into. But you’re picky tonight. The shy brunette trying to catch your eye would settle down and mulch without too much of a fight, but you want something tougher. A pissed and lively hen-do attaché would be a delightful casual fuck and would fight and melt like popping candy, but today you don’t want sugar. A fellow with a buzz cut looks like he would peel and reveal deep vessels, but you want the taste of woman.

It’s a hard life, being a predator, sometimes.

The night grinds on and this dissatisfied ache grows and grows inside you, like a weight making your breathing shallow and uncomfortable. Eventually you give it up. Takeaway pizza, you decide; and see if you can find something new while astral walking. It’s been a while since you sharpened your skills.

So you taxi back to the hotel. Before turning in you grab a surprisingly serviceable maple old-fashioned in the hotel bar. There, you find her.

Even with her back to you and even working on another man, you know your intended dinner partner for the night. Her blonde hair falls in waves like she habitually puts it up in a ponytail, but it’s down now. Sweet, but not sugary. And no pushover. You recognise the gentle but insistent pressure of another predator.

As you stir your cocktail you allow your gaze to linger on her and extend a tentative astral feeler: like a visualised counterpart to your tendrils. When your will brushes her you sense coiled danger but no innate occult talent. No copper-red sharpness of a vampire’s hunger. Whatever she is, she is entirely of the flesh. So you take advantage and push your will against her.

It’s not long before she scratches the back of her neck and turns, looking away from her prospective date in three stages as she scans for the source of an uneasy feeling. Her eyes lock with yours. Despite the dangerous fire in your eyes she does not look away. There is fire in hers, too.

The anonymous man she was interested in leans around her to see what has so captivated her attention. You don’t even bother to look at him. He complains to her and gets a curt response. Then an excuse.

She comes to you. “I feel like I know you.”

“Maybe you do.”

“Buy me a drink?”

You smirk, but look away to catch the bartender’s eye. She takes a Cosmo. Apparently this hotel bar is randomly up on its cocktails.

There are a few rounds of small-talk. She is a dietician, apparently. You claim to be a fireman, a claim so ridiculous that it’s obvious you’re subtly taking the piss. The dig lands how you want it because as you’re both talking your will is brushing against her, moulding her emotions. Like a spider’s pedipalps, you seize her and put her where you want her.

It’s not one-sided. You must work with her mind as it is. You can’t make her jump down your throat out of a sudden lust for digestive enzymes because there is no native desire. But you can make her interested in you. Make her want to bring you down a peg. Sharpen her hunger.

An onlooker couldn’t tell who stood first. Suddenly you’re both on your feet and walking towards the lifts. Neither talks while waiting for the doors to open.

Once inside you both do your best to fill the other’s mouth. She throws you with a bang into the dull metal wall and forces her tongue down your throat. You give back twice what you get and pick her up on your way to the other wall. When her back impacts it she wraps her legs around your hips. Your little predator-fly in your mandibles grows ever more desperate to have you inside her.

She also has a room here and you are dragged to it, stumbling over her shoes as she relentlessly kisses you along the corridor. Through the door you are spirited to the bed, hands on belts and buttons, discarding, disrobing.

In the bar she looked voluptuous: packed, curvy, soft to touch. Shapewear’s grip is removed and revealed to be hiding a pear-shaped belly that moulds to your firmer belly when you mount her. Her balconette shows a lighter touch: breasts outsized on her shorter frame stand proud. They yield warm to your devouring lips. She moans as your mouth explores her tits.

Underwear gone. Manipulating her hunger has stoked yours. Perhaps had you been less single-minded you would have tasted her, been less selfish. But right now you both want the same thing. Your weight pins her and you drive yourself into her wet, welcoming cunt in one easy motion.

The pleasure is instantaneous. Like this is your home. You rock your hips to grind yourself as deep into her as possible, greedy for her heat and her tightness. Your heart races.

Her mouth is everywhere at once. She kisses and tastes where you give her any access at all. Your mouth, your neck, your chest. You feel her mouth widen, several times trying to take in your head. She would eat you, you know. The belly whose fat rolls up and down with each thrust longs to contain you and melt you down. You tease it with the salt on your skin and watch her former lovers wobble like an ocean swell.

Her end comes swiftly. You feel her squirming beneath you when she begins to cum. Her cunt grips you and pulses like a throat. The last thing her eyes see is your own throat as you engulf her head.

Fuck, maybe she enjoys it. She doesn’t stop cumming and her last breath is partially wasted by a moan that sounds below your Adam’s apple. You continue stroking into her for the scant seconds it takes you to achieve your own orgasm, then go rigid but for the rocking that grinds your crotch against hers. As pleasure floods both of your systems you swallow, fruitlessly, massaging her face in your throat, and enhancing the wonderful stretch she gives you.

No post-coital collapse and cuddles for you. Her nails scratch into your back as she comes to and begins to fight for her life. You don’t mind the scratches but you have a job to do now. Swiftly, holding her to the bed with overwhelming force, you work her into your jaws and down your busy throat.

Her belly is jiggly but strangely sense, like the fat each of her former lovers left had just been compressed onto her frame. It squidges like fudge against your conquering tongue.

Your hands and hard palate force her to sit up and be consumed down to her chubby little waist. Then you kneel back and hoik her into the air. Her kicking and struggling, coupled with perfectly-timed swallows, only serves to work her deeper, faster.. Soon her calves are slipping quiescent between your lips and the hotel lights shine on her for the last time.

Those lights catch only your teeth in their strained grin as you repeatedly swallow, consciously working her along the length of your oesophagus. The woman’s back glides slick along your stomach lining as the extra leg meat forces her to rotate. Like a grisly internal birth.

Even before she is wholly trapped in your stomach she begins to fight. Her nails graze your internal surfaces but quickly soften to harnessness in your acids.. Nothing but a mild heartburn results. Her punching and kicking is effortlessly absorbed by your muscles, though you roll onto your back to watch her create moving bulges under your skin.

You burp, hugely, the sound of which stops her struggles like you have expelled her fighting spirit. You pat your stomach, affectionately, and murmur, “You never had a chance.”

Did she hear you? It’s hard to tell. The rocking motion inside your stomach might be sobbing. It could be wanking, actually. You become a little turned on by the thought and stroke yourself. You find your cock still lubricated by the juices of the departed and soon-to-be-digested woman.

Maybe her prey made her dense. You feel her moving for a long, long time.