You are still breathing heavily, skin scorching hot in the wake of your open wounds, dried blood caked inside them. It takes a good hour to calm yourself down and tug the reigns that hold your heart to your throat – back in its rightful place. You’ll never get used to the comforting high you are gifted by your crimson call with with the devil. Michael always links you to his life force, ensuring your safety throughout the process. You share a dagger, a hissing kiss that causes the candles to spill their wax over, dripping, river rushes towards the snakes that come free of the pentagram.
Licking your salty-slick lips, damp with your own sweat, you lean back on blood smeared thighs, eyes closing into your deep set sigh. You’re humming, unable to forget how it felt to move in shapes that had no purpose, yet translated a perfect show, your fingers holding the handle of the knife that easily peeled your skin an offering to blend with Michael’s. There is nothing else like it, connecting with him, that darkness encircling you like a vice, his heart in rhythm with your own. He was graceful, bleeding all over, enchanting you with his flexing body that angled his gifts. There’s a brush across your skin that has you opening your eyes.
Michael places the candle holder down, towels hanging across the claw foot bath. There’s an easy steam wafting from its enticing surface. He offers you his dark red hand, pulling you in for a breathless kiss. Once he takes you in he’s thumbing your blood dotted cheek. “Are you hurting too bad, love?”
You shake your head and lift yourself into the bath, offering your hand to him. It doesn’t take you long to settle into a quiet routine. You’ve soaped your warm rag and began to wipe down Michael’s golden skin, watching in fascination as the water turns red around you. Michael takes caution, dipping your breasts with his cloth, lingering a little longer on your nipples. You giggle into his clean peck to your water shined cheek, wrapping your arms around his neck.
“Can I please take care of your hair now?” You’re reaching for the shampoo bottle, a hopeful look on your face. Who is Michael to deny his best girl anything?
He has to stop himself from hardening at your delicate scalp scratches, lathering him carefully, giving him more attention than he’s had his whole life. Genuine time. By the moment he brings you to him you’re caught on his blue eyes a piercing admiration of you, his hair sticking to his shoulders, wet and dripping, rivulets of water latching onto his mouth. He seeks permission to give back the favor, your body swiveling back to lay between his legs and still as he finishes cleaning you. You’re both out in fluffy towels, Michael bringing you to his arms.
Toad's Cave 