I let out an involuntary moan, my hand quickening its pace. “Yes,” I reply shakily.
I’m so aroused, my body aches for release. I watch Abas stroking himself, wondering if my hand would fit around his shaft. He notices my gaze and follows it with his own.
“Was I sodomising your ass with my thick cock while pressing your airways impossibly tight?” he asks, quickening his pace in the rhythm of my own.
I close my eyes, letting the image flood me.
“Answer me,” he growls.
“Yes,” I moan as I grit my teeth, trying not to come.
I hear the rustling of fabric before I feel fingers enveloping my throat. I open my eyes, staring at Abas, still sitting on the armchair, his gaze crimson and wild. His hand is stretched out, just as it was earlier. Ever so gently, he constricts my airflow until I hear rushing in my ears again.
“You want to feel my fingers around your neck’s tender flesh,” Abas says.
My eyes roll into the back of my head with the tension that’s building in my body. I couldn’t answer even if I wanted to. The orgasm hits so hard, I can’t brace myself for it. Its intensity nearly topples me to the side. I feel hot cum spilling over my stomach and thighs, dripping down the sheets beneath me.
A muffled groan makes me look up. Abas shoots up abruptly, shoving his cock into his pants. I’m sure he hasn’t come, and I’m confused at the sudden change of atmosphere in the room. He paces in front of the fireplace, looking like a caged beast. Still catching my breath, I try gathering each piece of me.
“Get out already,” he barks. “Can’t you tell when you are not wanted?”
“Fuck you,” I shout at him.
He straightens himself. For a second, I expect him to throw me across the room with his strange powers. But Abas just stares. I stare back, angry and confused once again. I don’t know if I want to be torn apart or held together, but instead, I wait until my irritation recedes. Then I feel silly sitting there, naked and sticky with my own cum. I wipe it off with his sheet, tossing it on the floor, and pull my clothes on as quickly as I can manage. As soon as I’m dressed, I turn and leave the room, hearing the door slam shut behind me.
IX
ABAS
The hinges screech in protest as I cast the door shut behind Astaire. Never—not in all the weary ages of my existence—have I encountered such a vexing human.
I pace about my chamber with restless agitation, as if to release the disquiet gripping my marrow.
The fire mocks me with its unattainable heat; the bed taunts me with the scent of the one I desire yet cannot touch. Even the stones are steeped in the rancid essence of my tormentor.
Yet, Astaire…Astaire’s fearlessness is bewildering. That a mortal should stand before me without shrinking in terror is both an affront and a revelation. Driven by curiosity, I pried into him. The emptiness I glimpsed inside was perplexing.
He ought to be as full of life as he is of blood, yet he is like a living corpse: drained, pallid, facsimile. Neither alive nor dead. An anomaly. Perhaps that is what draws me to him so ardently.
I have known his kind for too long to mistake his nature. Humans are always preoccupied, whether with trivial anxieties, idle preparations, or demands of the flesh. Yet never in all myyears have I encountered one whose mind did not recoil from me in terror. Even before intellect forms thought, their instinct senses what I am, knows to fear me. The bitterness of their terror coats my tongue.
I strike the fire into a roaring flame, attempting to absorb its warmth. My steps hasten, fists clenched at my sides as the hunger stirs within me. Strangely, though Astaire’s presence ought to have deepened it, I found that his nearness dulled it instead. If only for a time.
Only two nights have passed since I last fed, yet now the hunger flares more fiercely than before. It seems that, as time passes, my thirst is deepening, growing ever more voracious and insatiable. I want to enjoin my creator for more, but I know that decrep?—
I cut the thought before it can take hold.
I know, thinking about him is always ill-advised. I would rather recollect the exquisite way Astaire’s throat suffused with colour the more aroused he became. The way his eyes rolled back when I constricted his breath. Right then, I wanted to touch his delicate skin more than anything, but I was afraid of what could—no,would—happen if I were to let myself go that far.
I have never spent much time among humans. Save for Bayard, but he, that snivelling oaf, barely merits the title. Even in the fleeting days when I was one myself, mortals never held an interest for me. Yet Bayard…Bayard was the most pathetic of them all. How he clung to the belief the master might one day turn him. How witless. How utterly naïve!
I approach my chamber’s door, and with my power, it opens before me.
“Bayard!”
When there is no answer, I call out once more, louder this time. Soon enough, I hear his shuffling ascending the stairs.I turn back and sink into my armchair, wrapping my banyan tightly around my chest.
“Yes, young master,” he quavers in his thin voice. How I despise the title he insists on using on me.
