I've been flirting with the Beast.
Yes, I know it's stupid, sending these little messages, panting poems bound to send the smell of fresh blood swirling around his nose and his cock.
But I hear him, that low soft growling in the night, mixed with a patient chuckle. He knows he can have me any time he wants. He'd rather play with me first. Like Ketzel, amusing herself with the mouse until he dies of exhaustion.
I feel his breath on my neck, but when I turn my head he is just out of sight. Again, there's the echo of his laugh.
His eyes are fixated on my nipples.
I can tell.
They are burning.
And my cunt.
But not from his eyes.
I want him.
I moan from the pain, the flames singeing the delicate flesh, and try not to think of the agony that will leave me screaming when he finally does haul me off to his lair.
And yet I flirt.
I whisper his name to the night.
I know I'll regret it.
And I don't care.