She always slept naked with the duvet pulled up to her shoulders. It was uncomfortably warm but she was unwilling to part with the weight against her skin. Insubstantial though it was, the pressure was reminiscent of a hug. She liked being held from every angle simultaneously. Like a gift, thoughtful and enigmatic. Like a moment, finite and eternally precious. It was early, a little before six o’clock and she was alone in bed. She slept in the middle of the mattress, at a diagonal. The early morning light had managed to push its way through the cracks in the blinds. It reminded her of the weedy gardens that sprang up intermittently on public sidewalks. She kept her eyes closed tightly but she could not totally filter out the extraneous light. Light which in the early morning seemed to her both hot and cold. She slipped in and out of consciousness with a rapidity that left her incapable of distinguishing her daydreams from her actual dreams.


She rolled over onto her right side and found herself pressed up against something unexpectedly solid. Something human warm. She placed her hand on top of the object cautiously, without peeking. She wanted to see if she could guess the object’s identity from touch alone. There was a pulse. Pillows didn’t have heartbeats or skin. Mattresses didn’t have bones or blood-heat. There was a scent in the air that was not her own. A scent that was deliciously human. Sucking her lower lip she continued to run her hand experimentally along the plains of the visitor’s chest and stomach. She heard him, for the figure was assuredly male, murmur. He woke by degrees. She continued to touch him with her eyes closed. Afraid that if she opened them that the foreign body of warmth would vanish. Once awake he climbed on top of her. His weight, resting partially on her pelvis. He touched her face gingerly. He touched her mouth with his fingertips. She took hold of his wrist, not wanting him to pull away from consideration. She did not want him to be overly considerate. She wanted his vulgar curiosity, the justifications and liberties that such a curiosity would afford her in turn. Had he truly been a stranger then she would have felt fear, shame at her own growing arousal, but he was not a stranger. Though none but the two of them could possibly hope to understand the ways in which they were connected. She kissed, licked, and nibbled at the pads of his fingers playfully. When he did not pull away she took his index finger partially into her mouth, sucking it, sliding up and down its length suggestively. He had done the same to her in a dream. She could feel his uneven breath, cool against her burning skin. She felt his energy above her, his gravity tugging at her from all sides. She opened her eyes and found that another pair regarded her. Half-lidded. A familiar shade of green. She released his hand and he lowered it to her cheek. The tips of his fingers were cool and damp with her saliva. He kissed her on the mouth. Smiled against her lips slightly and then kissed her again with more passion on finding her substantial and receptive. 


Had this been a dream the edges would have softened at intervals. For a few seconds she would have been able to taste his mouth, distinct from her own. For a few seconds she would have felt his mouth filling in the seams of her lips. She would have felt his lips working against hers and their tongues sliding together like a Stradivarius and a bow. She would retain the knowledge of what they did, the potency of arousal, but her sense of corporeality never held for very long. The act of kissing would yield to insinuation. His weight would compress and decompress according to her lucidity, which was intermittent at best. She clung to his shoulders expecting him to retreat into the ether. The mattress now cradling their combined weights remained compressed. He did not relent. She wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him in, corset-close. “Don’t you dare wake up…” Her tone was teasing, a reprimand without the requisite bite.  She would never detain him against his will. Her lips brushed his lips when she spoke. He smiled against her. “I’m not asleep and neither are you.” He answered her. He spoke the words into her mouth, she felt them vibrate against her lips.

Didn’t plan to double post.



Round 2

(this chapter is mostly fighting but there is some sexual content so be advised)

“Watch carefully dear Naida.” Damien whispered to his date. “One of these men will possess you before the night is over.” He squeezed his partner’s thigh affectionately. 

Both men had their charms but Naida had already chosen a favorite. “You’ve outdone yourself lover.” The elf responded by taking up Damien’s hand and kissing it.

“I had to pull some strings to get them in the ring together. I imagine this little stunt of mine pissed a lot of people off but in the end it will be worth it. Should either of them win I will not mind their hands upon you quite so much. Not all are worthy of you. Few indeed.” Damien was not a jealous man for he did not believe that Naida would leave him. He was handsome. He had status and wealth. He was a generous lover both financially and sexually. He kissed Naida’s hand in kind. The young man flanking him pouted. For all his recommendations Damien was a fickle man. He had lovers in the plural, never in the singular. His relationship with Naida was an open one.

“Do you have a favorite?” Damien turned his full attention to Naida now. The elf smiled enigmatically but said nothing. 


The referee called “fight” and the couple’s eyes returned to the stage in unison. 

Dread moved as if untethered by gravity with a fluidity and rhythm that proved difficult to track. Sammael lept boldly into the air, bridging the gap between them in an instant. For someone so large he was remarkably quick and agile. The direction of his blade changed at the last minute. The new trajectory brought the blade level with his opponent’s jugular. Dread deflected the shaft with his forearm. Had the hit landed it would have been fatal. Sammael didn’t care about the rules, only about winning the match. Before Sammael could fully regain his footing Dread roundhouse kicked him. The gladiator (for so he appeared) took a shin to his forearm. There was a sickening crack but this was missed by the noisy crowd. The fighters jumped apart. Sammael rotated the arm, it was fractured, but with all the adrenaline coursing through his veins he didn’t feel any pain. The referee issued a warning.


Damien loved only himself but he was particular about his possessions. Naida belonged to him and as such he had a vested interest in the outcome of the battle. He stole furtive glances at his date. He was certain of only one thing. Naida had a preference but which of the two combatants? Sammael was handsome, powerful and masculine, beautiful like a character from a Greek myth. The quality of his weapon suggested that he was the wealthier of the two. His interactions with the crowd suggested extroversion and charisma.  Dread carried no weapon. His clothing and manners were unrefined. He was clearly not a man of means. His possessions were likely meager and dictated solely by necessity. Damien shuddered to think of Naida being ravaged in a hovel or worse still in an alley. Yet for all his concerns he could admit that the demon possessed a certain sex appeal. His proportions were good. His muscles were clearly defined, forged as they were in utility. His hips, in particular, had caught the young aristocrat’s eyes. His attention drifted downward. Was Naida drawn to the prospect of a huge cock? Sammael’s garment proved more concealing.


At the conclusion of each round Damien examined the fighters. Dread showed no signs of fatigue. His face was without expression. His posture suggested neither effort nor encumbrance. He fought to win and yet seemed somehow indifferent to the outcome of the battle.  Sammael’s athleticism and endurance were no match for his opponents. His breathing became labored. Sweat watered down the blood of his various wounds. His will to fight increased with each round exponentially. The ferocity of his blows increased. He landed several attacks against his opponent and received just as many. Neither male buckled under the force. The crowd was wild, even Damien found himself unable to tear his eyes away. The young man at his side was beginning to explore his lap. Damien liked the other’s clumsy enthusiasm and made no move to impede his progress. 


Midway through the fight the demon was consistently predicting and thwarting his opponent’s attacks (attacks which appeared to the young aristocrat as wholly spontaneous). As the fight wore on Naida’s choice became increasingly apparent. Damien had more than once followed the trajectory of his lover’s gaze to the demon. Despite his prettiness Damien preferred a dominant position. Suffice to say neither Dread nor Sammael appealed to his personal aesthetic but they did appeal to Naida. The thought of his partner being taken by such a powerful and dangerous lover aroused him. The fight had already exceeded the expected duration. The crowd was growing anxious for a conclusion. Damien was beginning to lose patience.