27 December 2009

Scenting our prey

He is apprehensive but aroused. I can smell the curiosity on him, the desire wafting from his skin and mingling with the lightly acid scent of his nervousness.

The predator in the back of my mind wakes: yawning and stretching, her claws flexing. She has been napping since the loss of Actaeon, only waking briefly when I play with Diablo. But now she is padding along the hallway of my mind, moving steadily forward until she looks out through my eyes and fills my senses.

Suddenly, everything is sharper. I can smell the perfumes of every woman in the room and how the clash with the shampoos, the colognes of every man and which ones are compatible with their deodorant.
Every color is brighter, and the individual hairs on his exposed chest are suddenly fascinating. I want to straddle him and pluck each one while he squirms and whines.
My clothing is confining, rough, and I want to strip and rub myself against him to disguise my predator's scent with his of prey.

She, the predator, looks out through my eyes and scents him. We look at him and watch the fascination grow in his face. He knows he is prey now, knows the predator has his scent. I watch him realize it, accept it- and want it.
His hug to me is brief, but tight, intense, and I can feel the desire in him- taste the scent of it, rolling it on my palate like a fine wine.

Soon, there will be a meal to accompany it.

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