Jowita Bydlowska - Guy

“I hope you mean that. I really do. It’s important to live honestly, don’t you think? To live in a way that’s closest to our nature.”

“Yeah, sure. I guess it’s refreshing.” Her are eyes down.

I worry that I’ve said too much.

But how could I have said too much? I just told the truth. Fine, she can hate me for it, for admitting who I am, but that’s on her and not on me, and there’s nothing I can do about it now.

“I’m going upstairs. I apologize if I’ve offended you. That was not my intention,” I say. I go up to her and give her a quick peck on the cheek. She’s stiff, but she tilts her head to receive the kiss.

I go upstairs without looking back. She’ll probably leave now. I expect her to leave. I’ve offended her. I enjoy having her around, but perhaps I’ve overestimated her level of comfort and understanding. Also, I’m hurt about her rejecting my philosophies. At the same time, this could be a good start to my detachment process.

The door clicks gently downstairs. No big deal.

I go downstairs to see what the house looks like without her in it. I take the empty smoothie glass out of the sink. I throw the empty smoothie glass against the wall. It explodes, shards and milky bits flying everywhere.

Now I finally know what it’s like to throw a glass against the wall.

I DREAM OF RUNNING THROUGH A DARK, MOSSY FOREST, MY paws and my face covered with grit and stickiness, my fur filled with breeze, my fur like breeze itself, nothing like what I’d expect fur to feel like. My fur filtering the nightly heat, cooling me down as I run and jump over broken branches, step on wet grass, bounce off of rocks sinking in marshes.

The moon is full. I run. I brush against the raw bark of trees. I feel my skin getting torn by something sharp that grazes my side in a narrow passage between trees, but I don’t stop.

I see in the dark; my nose can see in the dark. I see everything; I see with every sense in me. My teeth are bared and the wind smashes against them; my fangs are like antennae, feeling out the next pulsing artery somewhere in the distance, ahead of me. My mouth is wet, soaked. Blood. Most of it not mine. It mixes with my own blood, pumping into the fibres of my muscles, muscles so purposeful they’re shaped like wings, thousands of wings interlocked with one another, making me speed ahead, making me fly, till I crash mid-flight, falling …

Falling …

I’m awoken by a creature, a succubus, straddling me with slim, strong thighs. One narrow hand clamped over my eyes, the other hand reaching down to pull my dick from under her ass, and as she does, her hand over my eyes moves slightly and I see her, my bald-headed demon bride, my belladonna.

She inserts me inside herself. She moves steadily up and down, exceedingly fast, thighs tensing and releasing. I reach for her hips to try to slow her down, impale her further onto me, but she pushes my hands away, shakes her head no. Her face is blank, it’s a mask, and up and down like a machine she goes. The first waves of pleasure well up deep in my lower abdomen – I struggle to remember something mundane, something to distract me from too-early release. Someone. The journalist who called to get the Grey Campaign story. What was her name? I picture her how I imagined her: a big, wide body. Celia.

My mind does its own thing. Big Celia. She’s splayed out on some couch. She’s wearing beige stockings and nothing else. Her mascaraed eyes are closed and there’s a hand going in and out of her inserting bottles, vegetables – and I have to stop and quickly multiply twelve by fourteen, which is ten by ten, which is one hundred, and then two more tens and four more tens, which is sixty on top of one hundred, is that correct? And two times four, which is eight, so that’s one hundred and sixty plus eight, so that’s one hundred and sixty-eight –

“Guy, Guy.” Bride’s voice breaks through, shattering my hundred and sixty-eight into mercury pellets all over my brain.

“Guy, baby,” she pants. She has stopped moving and she’s just sitting with my dick inside her. She’s giving off a scent, hot tartness and salt and something else, something extra that’s not entirely human – residue from a muddy run through the forest.

“What you told me. It’s a great idea. The girls,” she breathes loudly.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s fine, so good.” She moves up and immediately bears down. Our groins are a swamp of sourness that’s pouring out of her. I won’t be able to hold for that much longer.

“But I want you to do something for me. I have a strange, ah, thing too. I want you to –” she says, and goes up again. Six times thirteen is sixty plus six times three –

“I want you to choke me,” she says. “You told me yours, so I’m telling you mine.” Now she’s not moving at all.

Choke her. I reach with my hands and pull her down, pull her closer to me. “How do you want me to do it?” I feel her pulse around my dick, just a tiny wave of muscle squeezing, like a wink.

“Just put your hand around my neck and squeeze. Keep going until I give you a sign. I’ll close my eyes. Stop when I do. I don’t actually want to die.” She giggles a little. “Don’t give me that look. Trust me,” she says.

“I need to trust you so you won’t let me hurt you?” I say.

“Exactly.” She gets off of me and lies on her back. She moves her hand slowly above her beautiful, stretched-out, moonlit body, presenting herself to me.

What if I won’t know how to stop, won’t be able to control myself well enough? What if something springs out of me and tries to attack her, tries to kill her once I unleash it?

She moves her hips, pulling me deeper. My mind is filled with images from my dream: running through the forest, face covered in blood, speeding, feeling the wind wrap around me as I gain momentum. There’s tingling, electricity gathering deep inside me.

She stares back at me. She nods a small nod and I wrap a hand around her tiny neck. I feel the gentle swell of her throat underneath the pad of my palm.

I tighten my grip.

She gives another nod. Tighter.

I go tighter. I feel her throat contracting, a worming movement underneath my hand as she swallows.

She gives another nod.

My grip is really tight now. This might bruise her, so I loosen my grip a bit, but she shakes her head and mouths don’t, don’t .

This is a satanic challenge. But I know she wants to see if I’m capable of meeting it, if I’m at her level, if I’m not boring. I imagine dozens of little boys before me panicking, stopping, or worse, fuck-this-shit stopping, or worse still, telling her to get the hell out, calling her a freak.

I don’t want to be a disappointment. I can’t be a disappointment. I want to be her first love. I want to be the one to break the spell, make her fall for me, whatever it takes. So I tighten my hand around her neck, my fingers digging into her skin, too deeply now.

She grimaces but I keep tightening my grip. I feel my nails breaking her skin and I imagine I feel the wetness, blood, seeping from underneath my nails and I tighten –

She closes her eyes then, slowly, like a doll. A smile spreads on her face.

I loosen my grip, and it’s as if I’d been choking myself too – my whole body uncoils as relief comes over me.

Bride gasps and coughs, then just breathes loudly, bringing her hand to her throat. She tenses her lower back and thrashes backwards, her cunt spasming and contracting, squeezing me and drawing everything out of me, milking all the cum right into her – which is when I realize that I’m not wearing a condom this time, which should deter me but just makes me come harder. As I come, I have some kind of a half hallucination of something primitive, primal, an egg exploding into a fetus, birth splitting open our united bodies, shattering my entire being into a powerful orgasm.