Poetry & Blood Chapter 12: The Poet's Kiss By Trixie Adara Edited By ALewdEditor
Abby
Abby held her breath as she heard paper sliding under her door. She closed her laptop and scampered over to find an unfortunate stack of papers from Miss K. Abby sighed and bent down, picking up the stack and taking them to her desk. She'd hoped it would be from her penpal, but no. They were Miss K's manuscript, covered in red ink already from the mysterious Laura that the staff occasionally whispered about. Whenever they caught Abby listening, they clammed up and got back to work. Silently.
So far Abby had figured out that Laura was another copy editor. She had seen her before. She was in the ... uh ... Muse Sessions ... with Miss K and the other women for a while. Abby didn't get a good look at her though. She never talked to anyone during a session. Honestly, she did her best to avoid eye contact with everyone involved. She averted her eyes while she read, often using the book of Marcilla's poetry to block the sight of what the women did to each other, though she could never block it out entirely. She couldn't stop seeing the occasional flash of bare flesh. She couldn't stop the sound. You wouldn't believe how much sound the body makes during sex, even with the mouth closed, but once they started speaking or moaning, it was a cacophony of pleasure.
Abby shivered thinking about it. She slammed the stack of papers onto her desk and tried to get back to work. Of course, fantasies would still slip in. Miss K wrote some pretty spicy stuff and, in the margins, Abby could see Laura encouraging her to heat things up further. She noticed that recently Laura wanted more hair grabbing, more yanking, more force in every gentle encounter or intimate scene Miss K wrote. She was getting bolder in her suggestions, less formal in her speech, and sometimes downright insulting in her critiques.
That was why Miss K had asked Abby to follow behind Laura's work. Laura edited Miss K, but Abby edited Laura. She crossed out some of the more lewd suggestions. Lately, she did more and more of that, taking out downright gratuitous things Laura wanted inserted into the scenes. At the end of each stack of pages, Abby was supposed to write an assessment of Laura's work. Was Laura accurate in copy editing? Did she miss anything? Were her suggestions good or helpful? Finally, Abby was to recommend whether or not Laura should be fired.
Abby hated having that kind of power over a total stranger. Laura had Abby's job before her. She was promoted? Demoted? It wasn't certain anymore. She knew that Laura was an editor, like her. She knew that Laura had been the reader for the nightly session. That's it. If she were to guess, she would say that Laura was a bit sex-crazed. She was probably some fangirl of Miss K that wanted to get a job here and start pushing Miss K in some direction. Abby was probably hired to replace her, and this was the transition period. Abby could do honest editor work if she recommended that Laura be fired, but each day she hesitated.
Abby wasn't entirely sure she wanted to stay here. She hadn't read Miss K's work before coming here and, honestly, romance was not her preference. Her experience was entirely in fanfiction and, even then, she worked hard to steer her writers away from needless shipping and rule34. "Stick to the story; stick to the characters." That was her motto. Besides, few authors would let her do what she was really passionate about: word choice.
Words had always dazzled Abby in their own way. There was something special about indubitably' that certainly' could never touch. Things should bloom' not grow.' Even in Miss K's work: orgasms should thrum' not buzz.' There was so much space between words, even if they were synonyms, and few authors were willing to compromise their word choice. Of course, they had their own preferences and vision for the work, but it felt like they went with the first word they could think of, and not the best word for the job. Abby wanted to find the perfect word to describe something. A kiss could crash or melt or smash, but even better, it could ooze or slip or pulse. Word choice is exactly the kind of thing editors should be helping with, and yet, too many authors didn't have the humility to find flexibility with their editors.
That was what Abby loved about her penpal. The unsigned poems slid under her door about two weeks after the new girl, Claire, moved into the house. At first, Abby thought it was her, but Claire had no idea what Abby was talking about when she brought it up. Besides, she rarely saw Claire. Angelica hovered around Abby most of the time, meeting her needs, while Claire was left to the more menial tasks such as cleaning. She wasn't even invited to the creative sessions each night. It would be bizarre for Claire to randomly write love poems to Abby.
Of course, Abby didn't know that they were for her. Abby wasn't so presumptuous as to assume she was part of a torrid love affair through poetry. Abby gave feedback on the poem; it was what she did. She encouraged line breaks and suggested new words. At first, she didn't know how to to get it back to her penpal, but inevitably, each night, she would return from the brainstorming sessions and find the poem gone. It would appear again later, slightly altered, taking Abby's changes into consideration, refusing some, awaiting Abby's feedback.
To Abby, it was far more intimate than the evening gatherings with Miss K. Those were all in monologue. Miss K spoke, and she got what she wanted. There was no interplay, no tension. Editing with her penpal was a dance for Abby. Sometimes it was a formal waltz: fix the comma, add a line-break, change that to a period. Other times it was a a samba: try "quiver" instead of "shake," it would be stronger if you described less, leave it to the imagination. But, at its best, it was a tango, a seduction: yum, LOVE this metaphor, please please please don't stop writing, I relate to this SO strongly. When Abby lost herself and became a reader, not an editor, she found the words take her over. At that point, all she wanted were the words. She served the poem, the author, the mysterious penpal that led her down the path of her imagination.
Understandably, Abby preferred when poems were slid under her door, rather than stacks and stacks of Miss K's dry smut and Laura's attempt at turning it into a porn script. Besides boring work and waiting for more poems, Abby spent her time in her room, to herself. She didn't mind her co-workers, but she had no desire to spend time with them, especially considering what they did together every evening. Instead, Abby kept to herself, on her laptop talking with friends online or watching the latest episode of Carole & Tuesday. She didn't hate people, but she had plenty of friends already, and most of her hobbies were indoor hobbies. She considered herself an indoor cat and liked it that way.
This afternoon, Abby was working through a particularly droll passage from Miss K. She had been on a spree lately of trying to articulate the nature of attraction and desire, making parallels to evolution and hunting. Unfortunately, Miss K approached the topic as a textbook instead of a romance. It felt heartless but, worst of all, it was uninteresting. Abby spent most of her time reading Laura's comments. Some of them had become vicious attacks on Miss K, while others were graphic suggestions for what the main character should be doing. They ranged from sarcastic, cruel, rude, and pornographic:
"Why don't they just fuck already?"
"He should pull her head back by the hair here, get her attention."
"Talk less about why she's hot, show us her body."
"Are you trying to be Herman Melville? No one should be Herman Melville."
"On the other hand, Herman had more dick in one title than this whole novel."
"Tits. Call them tits."
"Do not use the word `bosom' ever again."
"Are you talking about her pussy? I can't tell under ten tons of metaphor."
Abby smiled at some and blushed at others. It was certainly better than the novel. She carefully crossed each one out, smiling as she went. At least Laura was funny, she had to give her that. Though, she was foolish to talk to Miss K like that. Her writing suggestions were correct most of the time, though anything pushing the text from PG-13 to R was unnecessary. Abby could see why Miss K wanted her gone; but in all honesty, her work would suffer for it. Laura knew precisely when someone was saying too much, when the reader could imagine far better or far worse than any word would dare touch.
There was a gentle scraping at the door to Abby's room. She turned quickly and smiled when she saw a single sheet of paper in front of the door, still partially obscured beneath it. She resisted the urge to get up and sprint for the door, as a bid to find her anonymous poet. She'd tried it before, but there was always an empty hallway waiting for her.
She lovingly scooped up the paper. It was a new poem, not one they had worked on together before. She smiled and read as she returned to her desk.
Thigh
There is equality in thighs.
None unsexy, none unshapely
Each pair desperate to hide,
Aching for revelation.
Envision a thigh.
The word alone, thick
In your mouth,
The heavy tongue
Between your teeth.
It isn't simply honored
By proximity to promise.
It is flesh on flesh,
Nerve on nerve,
Tingle on tingle.
Run your tongue over
Any thigh and taste
How sweet it is
To be devoured.
Abby blushed as her eyes darted over the words. She felt her own thighs warm at the thought of her thighs, of any thighs, being seen and tasted. She ran her hands over them, pulling her skirt down. Even through the fabric, she shivered. She lifted her skirt up pulling it to meet her crotch and ran her hands over the bare skin. She smiled, stifling a giggle as nerve endings fired from her thighs to her crotch and all over her body.
Abby bit her lip and hesitated. Then, carefully, she lifted her hands and let her fingertips linger at the top of her thighs. She danced over them slowly, letting each fingertip explore her supple skin. She shivered, goosebumps exploding over her body. She wasn't sure which she felt more: the pleasure on her fingertips or the pleasure in her thighs. She stifled a moan by biting down harder on her lips. She wanted to stop, to bring her fingers away, but she knew if she stopped touching her thighs, her fingers wouldn't stay still. They would climb up, climb deeper, to her warm pussy. Those were her choices now. She knew it. She was trapped to one sensation or the other, left with an impossible decision. Which felt better? She didn't know. Not anymore.
She imagined the nerve endings of her tongue sliding over a thigh. Would they feel as good as her fingers? She imagined a tongue over her thigh. That would be better for sure. Nothing could be better than a tongue right now.
Abby opened her eyes and blushed, her tan skin turning darker all over. She dropped the poem and hurried to the bathroom. She splashed cold water on her face, then ran it over her hands, wrists, and her upper arm. It stirred her out of her daze. She didn't have time to ... to ... touch herself right now. She was at work. She checked her panties. They were damp, but she didn't need to replace them. She stopped herself before it got too far.
What was she thinking?
Abby stared at herself in the mirror. She was short and slim, with curly and thick black hair, dark brown skin, and wore black thick-rimmed glasses. She stared until she felt composed, like herself again. She stepped out of the bathroom and changed her panties, just for good measure, before getting back to her desk.
She left the poem on the ground.
Abby went back to work like a good girl. Paragraphs about the nature and evolution of attraction she could handle. Even Laura's lewd comments she could handle. But something was wrong with that poem. If she started to edit it, to work on it, she knew there would be no way back. She'd be ruined for the rest of the day, thinking about her anonymous poet, about their literary love affair. She couldn't have that. Absolutely not. She had work to do. Boring, droll, horrendous work. There was no time for poetry or sex. Especially not with a stranger. Especially not now.
Abby's eyes darted to the page on the ground. She tried to recall the phrasing of the poem, the way the words tasted in her mind as she read them, but they were gone. The lingering aftertaste of them had faded, and she felt hungry for them again. She looked back at the stack of paper in front of her. She had five more pages to edit. She could do five pages quickly, maybe an hour or half an hour, and then get right back to the poem. Right? Just five pages.
Abby got through one page before she picked the poem back off the floor. She cleared her desk and gingerly placed the poem there with her red pen at the ready. She started at the beginning and read the first stanza slowly. She read it twice, three times, four times. She read it until she could close her eyes and envision the words dancing behind her eyelids, hovering over the darkness of her mind, suspended before her.
There is equality in thighs.
None unsexy, none unshapely
Each pair desperate to hide,
Aching for revelation.
She felt a chill wash over her body. A kind of pressure grabbed her by the shoulders, massaging them, as she read the words over and over in her mind. Abby had never considered herself attractive. She was too thin in her mind. She lacked the curves that Miss K or Miss Lancaster had. But she imagined her thighs in her mind, the words crawling over them like tattoos. She never had a problem with her thighs. Her calves? Yes. Her ankles? Yes. But her thighs? Her thighs were the plumpest part of her. So much flesh. So much shape.
Abby opened her eyes and and began to edit. She wanted to say something positive. She didn't think the poem should speak in negation.
There is equality in thighs.
None unsexy, none unshapely Each sexy, each shapely,
Each pair desperate to hide, Both yours and mine
Aching for revelation.
As she worked, Abby felt the pressure around her holding her hand, guiding her pen. This was her mystery writer. They were doing it together, both writing, both composing, both expressing themselves. Each word was an invitation for inspection, a vulnerability, a cruel and honest nakedness for the other to stare at, to judge, to edit. Abby edited the writer, but the writer edited her.
She went to work on the next stanza, following the same method. She read it over and over, memorizing it until she could see it behind her eyes, deep in her mind. There, the words could work on her, crack themselves open and reveal themselves to her. There they were pure, no filter between them and Abby. She was exposed to them in a raw and pure way, the way between two lovers' whispers in bed.
Abby felt the words read aloud to her in her mind. The woman's voice was cold and distant, almost a hiss, as she read the words to Abby. They guided her pen, telling her what to change, what to bend, what to show, and how to serve the work.
Envision a thigh.
The word alone, thick
In your mouth,
The heavy tongue
Between your teeth.
"It's for you," whispered the voice. "Make it for you."
Abby blushed. She hated the attention as much as she ached for it. She didn't know what to do with it, but someone was writing her poetry and slipping it under her door. Someone wanted her. Someone wanted her like this, with these words. Someone was calling out to Abby, to Abby's body, to Abby's thighs.
"Will you call back?" whispered the voice.
Abby nodded and opened her eyes, taking the red pen.
Envision a thigh. Abby's naked thigh.
The word alone, thick The word and skin, thick
In your mouth,
The heavy tongue
Between your teeth.
Abby read the final line: "Between your teeth." She shivered, feeling the sharp bite against her inner thigh. She gasped, jumping a bit in her chair. She felt the pressure around her, the presence of the voice, holding her in place. She could only close her eyes or read the poem, and with her eyes closed, she could not escape the poem. Over and over she read the words, and each time as she read, she felt the tongue of the voice on the third line. She felt the playful nibble of the voice on the final line. Over and over, trapped by the poem, held in place by its power, she read the words and felt the pleasure, the pain, of the voice as it permeated her.
She knew the final stanza would be her doom, and she plunged into it:
It isn't simply honored
By proximity to promise.
It is flesh on flesh,
Nerve on nerve,
Tingle on tingle.
Run your tongue over
Any thigh and taste
How sweet it is
To be devoured.
She memorized the words quickly, unable to escape the them and look at anything else. Again, the voice comforted her, seduced her, guided her.
"What do you want to feel?" it asked.
Abby didn't know. This was all too much. No one had looked at her the way this poet did. No one had talked to her the way the poem did. No one touched her the way these words did. There was no lover like this. Abby wanted to do what she always did: blush and run away. But the voice held her in place. This time, she couldn't run behind a screen or hide in an apartment. The lover was pressed against her, in her mind. There was no escape.
"More," whimpered Abby. "Please."
Abby opened her eyes and began to work, the voice guiding her with each suggestion and edit.
It isn't simply honored It is honored
By proximity to promise.
It is flesh on flesh, By flesh on flesh,
Nerve on nerve,
Tingle on tingle. Lips on lips.
Run your tongue over
Any thigh and taste Her bare thigh and taste
How sweet it is
To be devoured. To devour.
Abby's eyes glossed over. She put the pen down, the pressure of the voice guiding her. The work was done. She pulled her skirt up, bunching it around her waist. The work was done. She slid her hips forward in her chair. The work was done. She let her fingers dance over her thighs. The work was done.
"Serve the work," hissed the voice.
The work was done.
"It is honored," started the voice.
"By proximity," Abby's fingers climbed up her thigh. She pulled her panties down and over her knees. They were soaked.
"To promise," she muttered as she began to finger herself.
"By flesh on flesh," whispered the voice. Abby felt its breath on her neck.
"Nerve on nerve," said Abby. Her fingers felt electric as she played with herself. She didn't squirm. She didn't blush. She didn't panic. The voice was all around her. The voice was the poem. The poem was the words. The words were the poet.
"Lips on lips," hissed the voice, but this time the breath wasn't on her neck. It was on her pussy. Abby looked down slowly. Between her legs, under her desk, was a woman in a dark cloak. Abby couldn't see her face except for her curly and thick hair. It was brown and spilling out of the hood of her cloak. Abby felt it tickle her thighs, her precious and perfect thighs.
Abby gasped as she felt the woman gently kiss her pussy. Then, without warning, the dark woman let her tongue dance out. Abby slid further forward, bringing herself to the mysterious stranger, her poet no doubt.
"Run your tongue over," prayed Abby, and the stranger obeyed. She pressed her lips against Abby's pussy and lovingly dove into it. Abby moaned and let her finger slip down, teasing her clit while the woman continued to lick, letting her tongue dance into and over Abby's wet pussy.
Abby rocked her hips back and forth, grinding against the woman's mouth. As she came closer and closer to orgasm, she clenched her eyes shut. There, floating before her in her mind, was her dark woman. She was pale and nude, her skin impossibly white. On her flesh, written in bright red ink, were the last lines of the poem. She heard them then, like a song, and she sang along with it.
"Her bare thigh and taste." She smiled as she sang. "How sweet it is to devour."
A hot, white pain sprang from her thigh, but it was then washed out by a warm, oozing pleasure. From her thighs to her pussy, spreading up over her body, like a deep blush, pleasure washed over her as Abby came for her dark stranger and slipped into darkness.
The sound of paper sliding over the floor woke Abby up. Her heart fluttered as she caught sight of it, the pale paper catching the moonlight. She was up before she could think better. She never questioned how she got into the bed or how the time had passed. All doubts and thoughts floated away at the sight of another message from her mystery poet.
She held up the page. It was a single line written in a strange, thick, and dark red ink: "Find me in the orchard."
Abby didn't hesitate. She had a thousand questions for this poet, and this was the first chance to find out who she was and what she wanted. Abby put on some clothes: dark jeans, a tank top, a cardigan, and some simple boots, and headed outside the house. She wasn't sure what the rules were, but surely she was allowed to leave her room at night, right? This wasn't a dorm room, and though Miss K was some combination of landlord and employer, she couldn't be against people leaving their room, right?
Abby wasn't entirely sure where the orchard was, but outside was a reasonable first guess. Luckily the moon was full, lighting up the gardens of the manor in an eerie silver light. Abby reached for her phone to use the flashlight on it, but found that in her rush, she'd left it in her room. She found herself becoming lost wandering the expansive grounds. At first, she panicked as she passed through hedges and gardens and gates. She wasn't sure she'd be able to find her way back after so many twists and turns. Slowly, however, she began to enjoy the beauty of the cool evening. Around her, the city was quiet. The night was cool but neither freezing nor lonely. The garden was beautiful, and she was alone. She felt at peace, seeking out her mystery poet in a magical wonderland.
Abby was halfway through the orchards before she realized it. Apple season had just passed but, even so, Abby found herself tripping on apples before she looked up and around. For long rows in front of her and to her side there were nothing but trees in ordered rows. She felt less like she was in a garden or a forest and more like some other world that went on flat and straight in every direction. The manor was gone. The city was gone. There were only the trees.
A woman in a dark cloak stepped out from behind a tree in the distance. The cloak was thick and almost purple, and the woman had her hood up, disguising her identity. However, as she walked towards Abby, her body slipped out of the cloak, revealing her pale and naked skin. She was too far away for Abby to make out details, but her body was a silver blade against the night striding towards Abby.
Abby knew that it would be reasonable to run, but she couldn't. No. She could, but she didn't want to. She felt herself clam up and blush. This was real. It was all real. Some part of her had wondered if it was a dream, or if she was going insane, but now she could clearly see the dark woman almost floating towards her. Each step was smooth and confident. She glided, claiming the earth beneath her, coming to fulfill the promise of her poems.
Abby felt the urge to fall to her knees and cover herself all at once. She felt the chill in the air and wrapped her cardigan tightly around her. She felt her body warm with lust and need. She felt as though her favorite character had stepped out of the pages of a book to meet her, both surprising her with the wonders of the world and terrifying her as the supernatural crashed against reality. Her mind had no compartment for this, so she froze as the mystery poet approached.
Abby could see her features now. Her hair was medium-length, barely going past her shoulders. It had some adorable curls in it, soft and easy. Her eyes were blue, and the pale light they looked bright like ice. They were framed with black, thick-rimmed glasses. She was shorter up close, only a little bit taller than Abby. Her body was lithe and tight, her breasts small and perky. Her nipples were hard and dark, coming to a pronounced point under the swaying cloak. She had on bright red lipstick and, when she smiled, Abby knew she was the same woman that tasted her before. Only before with her words, and now as the creator.
"Hello, pet," whispered the stranger. Her voice was like shifting ice, like the cracking of a branch in a long dead and solitary place. It was sharp but gentle.
"Um ... hi?" Abby crossed her arms together across her chest and shifted her weight back and forth.
"Are you my lovely editor?" asked the stranger.
"I ... uh ... lovely?" Abby blushed. "I mean ... um ... yes. Yes, if you are my mystery poet, that is."
The stranger stepped forward. "Envision a thigh," she whispered.
Immediately, Abby saw the words of the poem dance across her vision. She replayed each sound in her head and whimpered slightly. Then, embarrassed, she blushed and stepped away from her poet.
The stranger chuckled and threw back the hood of her cloak. She looked around at the orchard, smiling to herself. "Beautiful isn't it?"
"Yeah," muttered Abby. "I had no idea this was here."
"I stumbled upon it by accident. It was a pleasant surprise."
"So strange to find an orchard in the middle of this city."
The stranger stopped and locked her gaze on Abby. "This is a very strange place." She stepped closer. "Or hadn't you noticed?"
"Oh, um ..." Abby stepped backwards. "I noticed."
"The Muse Sessions?"
Abby's eyes widened. "You know about them?"
"Tell me," a smile danced across the stranger's lips, "do you wake up sore? So sore that they insist you have a smoothie from Jacques?"
Abby's mouth dropped and her lips quivered. No one knew that. She told no one, not even Angelica who seemed to know more than she let on. "Who are you?" she whispered.
"You haven't guessed?" she asked. "You don't think you've been exchanging poems with Angelica all this time, do you?" She chuckled to herself.
"You're Laura," said Abby. It was the only thing that made sense. She was the only person in the manor she hadn't met.
"I hear I'm infamous," said Laura. Then she swept her arm under her and bowed low to the orchard floor. "Laura Delazier, at your service. I am reclusive employee, exiled editor," she stepped closer to Abby, the look of amusement vanishing as something darker, something hungrier, replaced it, "and aspiring poet."
Abby moved to step backwards, but Laura reached out and grabbed her hand. Abby's whole body tingled from the touch, her body buzzing. She blushed, and quickly slipped her hand away from Laura's.
"Why?" asked Abby. "Why me?"
"You seem to be the only one in the house with a true love of literature," sighed Laura. "I tire of those people that are all talk."
Abby nodded. She had suspected as much, but she wasn't vain enough to assume so. If this was the Laura editing Miss K's work, she had little respect for her employer's literary opinion.
"Did you, um, did you ..." Abby didn't know how to phrase it. She had barely processed it: this afternoon with the poem and the voice and the pressure and the dark woman.
"You want answers," said Laura, stepping forward.
"Yes." Abby stepped back.
"What if you don't like what you hear?"
"Please," begged Abby. "Tell me."
"Lips on lips," whispered Laura, and the air seemed to change around her. It was as though Abby was looking through extreme heat, as though she could see something moving in the air, or it was as though the crystal puff of Laura's breath washed over Abby, like she could see the words themselves.
Abby's concerns, her doubts, her nerves, faded away. She stood on her tiptoes and rose to bring her lips to Laura's. Laura smiled before leaning down and kissing the girl gently. Abby blushed, her whole body blushed, and she felt the attention and affirmation of Laura consume her. It didn't matter why Abby was chosen. All that mattered was that a beautiful woman and talented poet wanted her. She came because she was wanted and she'd never been wanted, never been pursued like this before.
She'd never been hunted.
Abby broke the kiss a little dazed, and Laura's smile widened. "I chose you because I need you," said Laura. Abby blushed again. Her whole body was flushed with dark heat, with overwhelmed acceptance and attention. "You're the only one," continued Laura, "that has the skill to help me."
"Help you do what?"
Laura brushed the back of her hand over Abby's cheek. Abby squirmed at the touch, beside herself with need and lust and submission and flustered weakness. Laura smiled at Abby's display of weakness.
"I want to save Camille," said Laura. "My tactics in my feedback have been crude and fruitless. I've tried talking to her, and she threw me out of the Muse Sessions. She won't listen to me, but she might listen to you."
"Save her from what?"
Laura's hand slid down Abby's cheek to her neck, giving it a slight squeeze. Abby whimpered.
"Save her from obscurity, from pointlessness, from squandering some real talent."
"What talent?" Abby heard herself say, then covered her mouth with her hand in shock. "Oh my gosh, I didn't mean that. I meant -"
"You read Marcilla's poems during the sessions?" interrupted Laura.
Abby nodded. "Those are pretty ... well ... those are ..."
"Hot," finished Laura. "And good."
"Yeah." Abby averted her gaze and blushed.
"Marcilla is Camille. Camille wrote those poems."
"What?" Abby looked back into Laura's eyes. "How's that possible?"
"Doesn't matter. What matters is that Camille can only truly write when she feels like it, when she's properly motivated."
"You're telling me."
Abby broke eye contact with Laura. She couldn't stand it. Her eyes were too bright, too sharp against the dark forest, like two pale blue moons.
"Have you had the dreams?" asked Laura.
Abby's eyes widened, but she didn't look up. How could Laura know about them? How could anyone know about the black cat climbing through her window, up her bare breast, biting it. She'd had it over and over since moving in, each morning she woke up when the cat bit. Each time, she felt the mark throughout the day.
"The soreness? The aches?"
When Abby didn't respond, Laura grabbed the girl's chin again, bringing Abby's eyes to meet her own. Abby didn't fight or resist.
"You have so many questions, little one," whispered Laura. Abby felt goosebumps and shivers take over her body. No one had spoken to her this way before. Laura was like an elder sister and a monster and a lover all in one. She was something dangerous and powerful and wise and hungry.
Abby nodded, though her chin barely moved in Laura's hands.
"I have answers. I know this is a strange place, and the truth is even stranger. What you must know now, and what you must believe, is that you are in danger and your only hope is me."
Once again, the air seemed to shimmer and warp around Abby. She felt her goosebumps flee as her body warmed under the breath of Laura. She relaxed her head into Laura's hands, letting the weight off her shoulders and neck. Laura was holding her up now. She didn't need to work so hard. All she had to do was relax and let Laura take over. Yes, Laura would take care of it now. She would take care of everything.
"But you didn't come here for politics," said Laura, smiling. Abby noticed her teeth. They were white, unusually white. Maybe it was the moonlight, but Abby couldn't help but wonder if they were entirely human.
Laura released Abby's chin. Abby's head drooped, but she caught it. Laura smiled wider, then shrugged off her cloak with a simple motion, and Abby saw her in her pale glory. Abby didn't pull her eyes away. She didn't blush. She didn't flinch. She was captivated. Laura was not the kind of body filling lingerie ads, but with her head tilted back, her eyes wide and dangerous, her smile sharp and eager, her shoulders thrown back, her chest pushed forward, her arms spread wide, her whole body a dare and an invitation, Abby had never felt closer to divinity.
Laura tilted her head down, her eyes glinting in the moonlight, her body demanding Abby's attention. "You came here for poetry. Isn't that right, pet?"
Abby nodded slowly. It was hard to think. Too much of her mind was busy trying to figure out if this was really happening or if she was experiencing pure wonder and lust that it was happening. There was no room for answering questions, for words, for conversation.
Abby stayed frozen as Laura approached her. The pale poet grabbed the waist of Abby's jeans and pulled her in closer. Abby let her, standing limply while Laura kissed her lightly on the cheek. Abby whimpered as Laura slowly, so slowly, moved and kissed the other cheek.
Her lips kept moving past Abby and to her ear. She kissed it lightly, then whispered, "Shall I compose you a poem, pet?" She crossed back to Abby's lips and hesitated. "Or perhaps you have more feedback for my last poem?"
Laura smiled, then wrapped her arms around Abby's waist, stepped forward, and kissed the small editor. Abby hesitated for only a moment, then her knees gave out. She crumpled, and Laura held her up, kissing her with all her might. Laura sucked gently on Abby's bottom lip, and then bit them playfully. Abby gasped, but she didn't pull away. Pulling away required too much thinking, and Laura was taking care of thinking now.
Laura unbuckled Abby's jeans and slowly let her pet sink to the orchard floor. Abby smiled, still weakly trying to kiss Laura back as she felt the chilly air wash over her pale thighs as her jeans were pulled down.
Thighs.
Abby blushed and tried to sit up, one rational part of her mind waking up, but Laura lazily pressed down on Abby's chest, keeping her prey pinned to the orchard floor. Abby didn't panic when she realized she couldn't escape. Panicking required thought.
"How can I write a poem," said Laura, "without something to write with?"
Abby wanted to answer but could not make words without thoughts. She could only use the words given to her: "The heavy tongue thick between your teeth," she whispered.
Laura laughed gently. It was soft and high, something inhuman and predatory. "Like this?" she asked. Laura sank to her knees between Abby's legs and ran her tongue over Abby's thighs. Abby couldn't see, but when she closed her eyes, she could imagine Laura's tongue spelling out letters, writing a poem on her thighs.
Abby wanted to squirm against it, to writhe away, to reduce the overwhelming sensation taking over her body, but she held still for Laura. She didn't want to the ruin the poem. She was an editor. Her job was to help the poet create her poem. They were creating together again, but now Abby was the paper and Laura the pen. Abby's skin held the words and drank them deep.
Laura wrote their poem with Abby's latest revisions. Abby whispered each word as Laura's tongue composed it, both of them writing in the same breath, the same hushed prayer of their bodies. As Laura went, she gave tiny nibbles to Abby's thigh. Abby giggled to herself.
"How sweet it is to be devoured," whimpered Abby.
"How sweet indeed," hissed Laura. She sat up, looking over her prey, smiling to herself at her work. "But not today."
"What?" Abby sat up, the shock clearing her mind.
"When you have served my purpose, I promise to devour every inch of you." Laura stood and picked up her cloak. "For now, we have much work to do."
"Work?"
"Yes, miles to go and all that." Laura took out a thin leather strap with a sapphire on it. She stared into the gem, smiling at herself. "Miles to go."
"Please," whined Abby. She lifted her pelvis, creeping it towards her dark poet.
"Please what?" Laura cocked her head, amused.
"Please devour me. Please let me cum."
"Oh, pet," sighed Laura. "Indeed there will be time."
"Please, dark goddess, please." Abby had lost all reason, lost all fear and doubt. All she knew was the hunger, the emptiness inside her that only the words could fill, only her poet could fill. The words made and remade her, and the poet gave her the words. That made the poet her goddess, her dark goddess.
"Remake me," she whispered.
Abby laughed. It was high and clear, like a song. This was more than she had hoped for. She had planned for prey, for a slave. She had never expected an acolyte.
"As you wish, pet." Laura went to her knees, the leather strap still in her hand. She grabbed Abby's panties without hesitation and slid them down. Abby didn't resist. She showed no concern, only the peace of release, the ecstasy of devotion.
Laura was unsurprised to find the panties soaked. She slid two fingers into Abby's pussy unceremoniously. Abby arched her back, and moaned.
"You want to be remade?" mused Laura. "Fine. Let's write a new poem." Laura used her free hand and wrapped the leather strap around Abby's left thigh, above the knee. "This marks you as mine. You belong to Laura, now and forever."
Abby felt the cold rush of breath and power wash over her again. Her mind went fuzzy and then numb entirely as the words sank into her.
"Repeat," ordered her dark goddess.
"I belong to Laura, now and forever."
Laura pumped faster once the strap was in place. Abby watched her dark goddess carefully, trying to memorize each detail of this moment, her ascension, her second birth. Laura smirked as she saw the adoration in Abby's eyes.
"You belong to Laura, mind and body."
"I belong to Laura, mind and body."
"You belong to Laura, blood and soul."
"I belong to Laura, blood and soul." Abby strained against Laura's touch, feeling her body building to explosion. She tried to control herself, to stay still for her goddess, but her body was eager. It was weak.
"You will obey her commands, even to death."
"I will obey her commands, even to death."
Laura tapped the strap around Abby's thigh. "This is a collar around your veins."
"A collar around my ... uhhn ... veins," moaned Abby.
"Your blood is mine."
"My blood is yours."
Laura bent down and bit Abby's thigh, hard. Abby arched her back, almost trying to squirm away, but she didn't want to escape Laura's fingers. She held still as best as she could, writhing and bucking against Laura. Laura bit harder, letting blood trickle out over her lips and tongue. Abby moaned in pleasure, her body relaxing into the pain. She belonged to Laura. Her body, her blood, belonged to Laura.
"You thigh is mine," hissed Laura as she pulled away, wiping the blood from her chin.
"My thigh is yours," moaned Abby. She was close, so close.
"You will serve me in secret."
"I will serve you in secret."
"You will be my eyes, my ears, my servant."
"I will be your eyes ... your ... uhn ... ears, your ... oh goddess ... your ... servant." Abby's hips bucked. She needed to cum. Her whole body would explode if she didn't cum.
"If you obey, you will be devoured."
"If I obey, I will be ... oh please, oh please goddess. If I obey, I will be ...mmmmhm ... I will be ... devoured." As Abby finished her vows, Laura pressed deeper into her pussy, and pleasure took over Abby's mind. She lost all sense of place and purpose. There was only her dark goddess and the pleasure of serving her dark goddess. She came, and all she could think of was the strap around her thigh, the promise of her life, her soul, her mind, and her blood. Everything belonged to Laura now. Everything.
Laura stood, wiping her hands clean and putting her cloak back on. "Stay here for two hours, then come inside. Make sure you're not followed."
"Yes, goddess," whispered Abby through heavy breaths.
"If they ask why you were out, say you wanted to visit your mother. She's sick."
"Yes, goddess."
Laur wrapped the cloak around her and clasped it. She didn't smile as she looked at Abby. Her face was tight. Her lips were a thin line. "Next time, pet," she said as she turned to go, "I will be the only one that cums."
"Yes, goddess," said Abby, but Laura had already slipped into the dark.
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