Page 23 of Devil Inside

Tonight, just for tonight. Nothing is out of the realm of flesh. We’ve missed this so much. So many years trapped inside that hollow husk of a human being. So long. Too long.

Now we’re back. Free once again. We want to touch, to taste, to lick and nibble.

Perhaps bite.Perhaps.

We want to bleed.

“Take me,” we say.To hell and back.Our hand travels down his chest. Grazing the navel. We find the hem of his flimsy shirt and tug upward, exposing the belly below. The pale skin. Even here, in the dark, the shadows of the alley, his flesh burns so bright. For us.

He seizes our wrist. Resists. “Here?”

We press against him, our body pinning him against the brick. We hear the brittle grit of it, the mortar crumbling under the pressure of our bodies. That sandpaper rasp.

Our mouth finds his again. This time we bite.

Just a nip.

He doesn’t resist, not this time. Never again. Not for us. He’ll never forget us.

We’ll make sure of it.A night to remember.

The music continues from within the concert hall. It is so loud, even now, outside, that we can feel the very vibrations within the brick. The songs reverberate through the walls, the foundation of this building, all the way into our bodies. The bones that hold us up resonate with the sound. It’s dizzying, the sheer volume. The dissonance. Even now, we feel the music distort our heartbeats.

His hands find our shoulders, tightening their grip. His fingers burrow under our shirt, touching the skin along our arms. He lifts us—look how we levitate—our feet taking offfrom the cobblestone. We wrap our legs around his waist. The weight of us presses him against the wall while his hands now hold onto our thighs, elevating our frame, pinning him.

I want to leave this body and enter his. Simply drift. Just for a breath. The gulf between us, made of skin and sinew, held sturdy by a scaffolding of bone, is too much for us. I want to cross that threshold of flesh. I want to make my way inside.

But I don’t. I choose not to. Restrain myself. See? Look how controlled we are. We want to experience him this way.Feelhim from the outside. Simply the skin. For now.

So we keep ourselves contained. Confined. It takes all our strength. Our willpower, if such a thing even exists.To savor him, we say to ourselves. A fine wine.

Red, of course. Always red.

“My place is close by,” he says in our ear. His breath is a livid coal pressed against our skin, burning the lobe. Everything aches inside. The chill of our skin, all goosefleshed and numb, while the inside burns. Moistens. So we sayyes, yes, take me, take me away.

We follow.

He leads us along, but we are in control. He must know this, sense it on some level, but he is at peace. He wants this. He will acquiesce. Give us what we demand.

And what we want more than anything is to taste his skin. Go deeper. Slip inside.

No, not yet. Slow down.

Savor.

What will we find within this man? What will the vast chasm of his heart offer?

The possessor always seeks the possessed. Water always finds its vessel. Wine finds its decanter.

He takes our hand and guides us through the night. The streets offer lights. Bodies behind panes of glass. Look at them all. These people. Their quiet lives. Their fragile skin.

There is no talking anymore between the two of us. No conversation is necessary. There is only the night.

Our night.

All ours.

His living space is insignificant. The walls bare. He has very little to show for himself. Who is he? His existence is limited to the barest essentials. We like this. His simplicity, stripped down to the bones of his existence. He is not weighed down by belongings. He is unencumbered.