I can still almost hear Dru, but sheís so faint now and my senses are filled with this boy. So many details, so many facets, so many complications. I didnít mean things to go this far. Thought itíd be fun to play with him for a while, right under the Slayerís nose. God knows he was ripe for it. But he talked about foxes and friendship and being fucked and itís not a game anymore. I said he was changing, learning and growing right in front of them and I want the man that heís becoming. Want to mould and teach and guide and show him just how beautiful and strong and dark he could be. Itís already begun; he just doesnít know it yet. Heís beginning to trust me and I donít think Iíve ever been more turned on or more terrified in my life.
Iím standing in the shadows watching him sleep. This is where I live and where I kill and I need him to understand that. I want to touch him; I want to fuck him and hold him and protect him. I want him to turn his back on his little gang of heroes and give me his devotion and his soul. Want him on his back in my bed and kneeling on the floor at my feet. Want those pretty pink lips round my cock, whispering his confessions and screaming my name. Want those eyes fixed on me, for guidance, instruction and permission to live. Heís lying on some grotty mattress in a dark airless warehouse and this is where heíll live his life. With me, in the shadows
I take another pull from the flask and look back into the half darkness of the barren room. Small shattered windows set high at street level, the only illumination in the gloom, and I watch him. His face is ghostly, glowing in the soft pale light of the gibbous moon. Heís breathing gently, peacefully and I donít think Iíve ever heard anything so hypnotic in my life. In, out. In, out. One, two. One, two, and Iím stroking in time. Scraping the heel of my hand across coarse black denim, feeling the bite of metal teeth rasping against hard flesh. One, two. In, out. Up, Down. Heís moaning in his sleep, muttering and whimpering and the scent of fear rises in the air as he starts to squirm, clutching at the ragged edge of second hand blankets. Heart rate increasing like percussion and the feel of metal against skin intensifies, as he fights for every breath. Donít, no, please, stop, please, yes. His fingers are at his throat, clutching and scraping at blue, black bruises. Heís hurting himself and I stand motionless, waiting for him to wake, but heís too deep under, drowning in her power and her hate. Heís pulling me down with him and I push harder against cold steel, following his spiral of pleasure and pain. His heartís drumming out of his chest and Iím gasping to the beat, following the rhythm. This is where he belongs. This is what I want and this is what I need. Thereís salt in the air and an anguished whimpering and Iím riding the torrent of his fear and shame and lust and hurt, Ďtil the waves crash and I shudder in time with his tears.