Nympho notes love after.., p.5
Nympho Notes (Love After Life), page 5
Then I locate her again across the room. Wisps of red fly over her shoulder as she looks behind at me, smiling. It’s fucking earth-shattering. She’s playing a game. She wants me to chase her. But for a moment, I’m frozen, my body refusing to do anything other than what she commands. When she cocks her head, I’m suddenly allowed to move again. I feel like a dog on a fucking leash, and she pulls me toward her.
But before I can get any closer to her, a sudden pair of hands snake around her waist, and lips meet her neck. I blink rapidly. Her attention is taken by whoever tastes her, and I’m furious. Nausea rises in my chest and my fists tremble by my side, jealousy consuming me entirely.
A woman moves behind her, squeezing the places my little obsession guides her hands to. Her lips part as if she’s about to moan, and I’m devastated I’m not forcing the noise out of her myself. Someone else is claiming her, but she never looks away from me.
Fucking cock tease.
Her arousal is thick in the air, I can almost taste it on the tip of my tongue. It’s intoxicating, a drug that courses through me, threatening to tear my control apart. I could inhale hard and steal the energy for myself. But I don’t. I want to taste her energy with my pleasure forcing it from her.
My eyes darken, turning black as desire bleeds down my face. I force myself to look away, to hide the hunger that’s clawing its way to the surface. Each second feels like an eternity. My grip on the beast falters; it howls, feeling scolded by her rejection.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch my little obsession claim the lady’s lips. It’s a slow, hot kiss and her tongue flicks out as she dominates the lady’s mouth. She pulls her flush against her body, and I watch as her fingers flex against their lower back. My cock hardens as I watch her fight off the desire to inflict pain.
Soon, she grows tired of the teasing and pulls back. She whispers something into the lady’s ear, who immediately nods with a shit-eating grin on their face. Then, my little obsession guides them through the crowds. She doesn’t even give me a glance, but I follow blindly, craving her presence even if she doesn’t want mine.
A fucked-up fantasy fills me.
I desperately want to see her rip apart the human in front of me. I want to taste the aftershocks of her orgasm as she rips through flesh and soul, claiming another life. I need to taste the energy of her sin, bathe in the destruction, and have her life swimming through my veins for the next few days.
This demon must have operated here for a while because she knows exactly which corridors to take. It feels like we bob and weave around tape and no entry signs for hours, until the cold air of a rooftop terrace kisses my burning skin. Not wasting a single moment, my little obsession pulls the victim flush against her. They embrace in a heated kiss, hands frantically grabbing one another as though their lives depend on it.
The scent of arousal makes it hard to breathe. I rearrange myself to stop the painful ache.
“Do you like that?” She finally speaks, and it’s my fucking undoing — low, sultry, perfect. I could listen to her breathless moans every day and I’ll never get bored of the way her voice captivates me.
I fall slowly to my knees, knowing that they are going to give way any minute now.
Never breaking the kiss, my little obsession dips her fingers into her partner’s jeans. She doesn’t bother with any foreplay — she’s too desperate to feed — and she connects with her sex immediately. Her partner writhes in pleasure. She stops the kiss, only to sink her teeth around their nipple through the material of her top. She bites hard and her partner cries out. At the same time, her fingers jolt in the trousers. The victim flinches, quickly pushing up onto her tip-toes as my obsession plunges into her. I’m desperate to see what she is doing. I want to know how many fingers she’s fucking the stranger with. I want to know how hard she is biting her nipples.
I’ve never been harder in my fucking life and I have no clue how I’m holding onto my resolve. She’s like the Lilith of all succubi, and I’m utterly addicted to it. The only thing stopping me from acting is the fear of it ending.
The lady rocks against her, faster and harder as the string of moans fall more freely. It can’t have been a couple of minutes from when they first kissed, and yet, the lady is ready to fall apart for my demon. Her head falls forward into the red mass of hair and she screams. At the same time, an orgasm rips through her. It feels like it goes on for all eternity as my demon forces her to ride the high. I feel the energy intensify as the feed frenzy is about to begin.
I haven’t taken a single breath in minutes; I don’t want too, either. I can’t have any distractions from her sweetness. I wait for the claim to happen — I wait for my demon to take complete ownership over the human and rip the life source from its skin, and yet it doesn’t happen. Seconds go by, and then a minute. She doesn’t stop fucking the victim with her finger until another orgasm is ripped from them.
I’m rock fucking solid.
Is my demon playing with her food?
As if to answer me, her eyes tear up and meet mine and they glisten mischievously. She looks pleased, as if this is exactly what she wanted to find. Her lips pull into a smile. I swallow the growl between my lips. She’s far too dangerous for her own good — I know I can’t let her live, but equally, I know it would be a waste to kill her before I’ve had my own fun.
My red-haired obsession removes her fingers from the victim’s trousers and slowly brings her fingers to her lips. Her tongue flicks out and she tastes the cum, with slow, long licks. Her cheeks hollow and she slowly bobs her head. Her eyes never fucking leave mine as the images of her choking on my cock flood to mind.
With a low growl, I suppress the fantasies.
That’s it.
I need to take back control.
The low pitch of my death whistle escapes between my lips. I wait for the red-haired creature to flinch. I want to see the horror sink through her when she realises that she’s unknowingly led her creator and punisher to watch her crimes. I need to taste that fear; I need her to flee; I need to fucking hunt her down.
However, she doesn’t flinch. Instead, her eyes flutter shut, and she melts into the touch of her partner.
What the actual fuck?
Seconds go by until dread pulls through me. Something is wrong.
My fingers jump to the demon’s claw. I pull it close to me, silently calculating the angle I need to throw it at to kill my demon but leave the human alive.
I whistle again, louder this time. My obsession finally reopens her eyes, but something isn’t right. Before I have the chance to figure it out, the woman behind my red-haired obsession snaps her head in my direction. It’s unnatural, as if her neck has just broken in half before clicking back into place. I hear every nerve twinge and the hairs on the back of her neck shoot to attention. Crimson eyes dart up to face me, the white iris’ bleeding now that the creature is in hunting mode.
Realisation slams into me.
The lady isn’t a victim — she’s the fucking demon!
On cue, the demon releases an ear-splitting shriek. It reverberates around my skull getting louder and louder and I have no time to gather my thoughts. The creature leers forward, shoving the red-haired woman to the floor to disorient her prey, before shooting poison at me from the back of her throat. I duck and roll before leaping to my feet again, a metre away from the mortal. I hold my hands up and invite the creature closer.
I know I need to lead the demon away from the mortal. I can’t have humans witnessing Hellish things, but the Succubus in front of me is relentless. Her fingers snap backwards and turn into claws better for striking and she crouches down as the rest of her body transforms. The way she moves is clumsy, as if she is not yet comfortable in her body.
Calculating my next move, my eyes tear towards the mortal who is still on the floor. She struggles to prop herself up with one hand and clutches her head tightly with the other. Her hair covers her face, but I smell blood. It makes the cells on the tip of my tongue explode expectantly. The blackness drips down my face and I feel my own transformation start to take place.
When I look back at the Succubus, I find her mid-air, lurching toward me. I meet her halfway, plunging my demon claw deep into her ribcage. It shatters from impact, and I feel the jagged bones slice my fist as I thrust the weapon into her multiple times. My other hand slaps around the demon’s mouth to hide the death shriek. It thrashes in my arms, desperately fighting for its life, but it’s no use — her heart squelches when I plunge my weapon deep inside. One final breath escapes the creature before it falls limply in my arms. The skin turns to ash, starting with the external limbs, before the decay crawls its way to the organs. Before long, the Succubus is a pile of dust beneath my boots. I swallow hard as my mind swims with confusion.
Why would the Succubus involve me in the feed? How did it channel my desires through the mortal? Was it a mistake or is something darker happening here?
Out of the corner of my eye, the mortal touches the wound on her head before looking down at the blood staining her fingertips. My jaw clenches at the sight. Fantasies of sucking them dry, consuming her wound, forcing her body to submit to me, assault me.
I stumble backwards. The hunger has never felt so overpowering before, I’ve never felt so weak, so fucking tempted.
I should help her. She’s probably concussed and most definitely in a vulnerable state, but I can’t bring myself to draw closer. The scent of her blood, mixed with arousal, still swarms my mind. My fangs are still painfully extended. I need to sink my teeth into something; I want to see if she tastes as good as she smells.
With a low growl, I put distance between the mortal and me. I’m desperate to feed from her but common-sense forces me away. I saved her life tonight. And if I stay here any longer in her tempting presence, I might have done all of that for nothing.
Chapter Seven
Everest
Putting the pen down, I clutch my head — it’s fucking killing me. Each time it thumps it feels like my brain is going to burst out of my skull. The nausea rising in my chest doesn’t help my misery either. A killer hangover is not the way I want to start the working week, but last night’s Everest has no regard for this morning’s one.
There is a wound the size of my finger in my head, but I have no recollection of what happened. It’s most likely drug related. I probably fell and made a tit of myself. The usual stuff.
But even still, there would normally be a face, a feeling, a song to give me some idea of where I spent my night. I have nothing. The only proof that I left the house is this stinging wound on my forehead.
The low hum of the office doesn’t offer me much solace either; it’s like someone is groaning in my ear continuously, and there is no relief from it. It feels like I’m being suffocated by files, too. For every file I close, three more emerge, drowning me in an endless sea of paperwork.
It’s a shitty little job, this tech complaints role, but it’s an easy one; I could do it with my eyes closed if I wanted to. But lately, I’ve been assigned far more tasks than there are hours in the day. I hate it. But I don’t hate it enough to change anything.
It was an easy job to fall into after high school. They required no qualifications, no experience, no references. The recruiting lady gave me a tight smile, eyes screaming with pity, when I handed her a piece of paper with my name and a couple of skills scribbled down in blue ink. She shook my hand, and I got to work that very same day. Eight years later, I’m still here, doing the same mundane task over and over again — but it has no responsibility, no requirement to work outside of hours. I can finish at five and be at the bar for ten past five. It’s perfect in that regard, and it’s only for a couple more months. It’s simply a means toward my end.
But I must admit, the minutes are sluggish, and today is no different. I look at the clock again. I swear it’s been ten o’clock for the last four fucking hours.
I glare at the vacant desk opposite me. One of the supervisors went missing a few days ago. And with no note from him, no reason for him disappearing, we are to assume he doesn’t want to come back. And thanks to him, my workload has significantly increased.
That’s it.
I can’t do this sober any longer.
Dipping my fingers into the drawer next to me, I fish out my flask before glancing over my shoulder to make sure nobody is leering in my work cubicle. Even the mere thought of gin has my mouth watering. I’d like to pretend the smooth notes are about to delight my senses, but I know it’s the cheap stuff I can buy for a tenner at the local corner shop.
It’s a familiar process: I’ll reach under my desk to pretend to sort something in the folder cupboards beneath it, before gulping down as much as possible without making my eyes stream. I’ll wince and regret my choices for a moment, but then the heat will fill my stomach, and everything will be okay again. However, as soon as the bitter taste touches my tastebuds, the routine is interrupted.
“Have you closed that report on the Jenkins’?” A sudden, hurried voice booms behind me.
With a yelp, I correct my posture, dropping the flask against the carpet. I shoot upwards, smacking my head in the chaos of everything. The throbbing intensifies and no matter how much rubbing I do, the pain refuses to subside. My feet scramble around to pick up the flask, but I only kick it further under the desk. A sense of dread fills me as I think about all the wasted alcohol that now stains my cubicle floor.
Red-faced, I turn to face my manager, Paul, who stares down at me angrily. The atmosphere immediately sours.
“What?”
“It’s pardon.”
“Pardon,” I say quickly — anything to avoid his presence lingering longer. I can’t be dealing with a lecture today; everything hurts, and I just want to be left in silence. I try to hurry the process along, turning to my computer and pulling up the system to enter the name in. “Which report?”
“Jenkins… the one with the,” — he looks over both shoulders and lowers his voice — “the toaster malfunction.”
“Toaster malfunction?”
“You know.” His tone is clipped. I can smell the sweat oozing off his body, and it makes me nauseous. “It blew up in that old ladies’ home. I asked you to sort that out last week. It better be fucking done.”
“Whose case was it originally?”
“Mine.”
Shocker.
My eyes rake over the dozens of files overflowing my desk, and I gesture to it with a deep sigh. “I’ll try and get it done today.”
With a snarl, he folds his arms over his large gut, and they barely reach across. His fat, red fingers interlock but they are hanging on for dear life. When he looks down at me, his face folds like a pug dog, and that scowl looks almost permanently etched in his rough skin. He wheezes.
“You’ll do it now. This is a huge case that we need to resolve and I’m not going to get in trouble because you’re too fucking lazy to do it today.”
The brat within me does not take too kindly to his tone — she never does — and any resolve I was clinging onto drifts into the back of my mind.
Spinning on the chair, I turn to meet the menacing gaze of my manager. He shivers as though the air has become several shades colder.
“You want to go there, huh?”
“Do your fucking job.”
“Do yours.” The words drip with venom. I feel like a caged animal being poked with a stick. One more prod, and I could lose it. I almost want to. He needs to fucking understand that I can’t physically do any more work than I already am.
There is a silence between us, sharp enough to cut glass. My cubicle seems to be a reoccurring battle ground for our arguments, and with a burning hangover making me irritable, I welcome another argument today.
“When was the last time you took hold of a complaint, huh? You’ve been the manager for what, six months now? The last time I checked, I was having to do your job for you, as well as everyone else’s because you only seem to hire apprentices who have no clue what they are doing, and all the old staff left because of poor management.”
In an act of intimidation, he slams his hand against my desk. The bang ricochets off the walls around my cubicle but I refuse to show him any signs of discomfort.
Bringing my pen to my lips, I smile at the pitiful display in front of me; it’s like a toddler throwing a tantrum. The files tumble to the floor. Flashes of me bashing his fucking head against my desk spring to mind. The violence twists inside of my stomach and makes my fingers throb with the urge to gouge his eyeballs out.
“Was that supposed to scare me?”
“Pick up the files.”
“Is this your shitty attempt to get me on my knees?”
His face reddens. “Listen here, bitch. You work for me, got it? You do as you’re told, when you’re told, or you’ll be out of a job.”
“Fire me.” I challenge him in a flare of rage. “Do it. Fire the only employee who knows what she’s doing. If not, walk away. Leave me the fuck alone and I’ll get your work done when I get it done!”
He scoffs. “Listen here, Everest Blue, you might know how to run these programs and click a few buttons, but don’t think that you’re winning. You’ll be in the complaints sector for the rest of your shitty life. You have nothing going for you. You have no qualifications, no education, no dream-"
There’s nothing to do or say other than drown him out. We’re playing tit for tat, hurling insults at each other to hide the fact we are both deeply unsatisfied people. I drown him out. He’s trying to hurt someone who has nothing left to hurt. I’ve mastered the art of controlling the numbness that hugs me like a velvet rug around the brain. It’s like an invisible force swallowing me whole, cocooning me in a protective hug. All I must do is release the breath between my lips as though I’m pushing the air through a tiny straw. Then, I let my imagination run wild. Brick by brick, I build the wall between me and whoever my attacker is. His words can’t penetrate my protective field; his words can’t penetrate me.
