The Cavern of the Bear (OPEN~please read 1st post)

The Lady stepped forward, two mincing steps, and positioned herself over pretty pouting rose bud lips and tongue. Cunt dropped onto open wetness. Hips jerked. Taking from the girl, not allowing her the joy of anything other than having juices spread upon her nose, chin, cheeks.

The orgasm was a flash fire. Quick to start, quicker to end. The Lady made not one single solitary sound. Only the trembling of her legs gave any clue to the orgasmic bliss she was experiencing. The sounds weren't for the little one kneeling so prettily at her feet.Not yet, maybe not ever.

Strong hands gripped hair, yanked.


"Up on your feet...head for the bed in the corner. On your back. Hold your legs as far open as possible."

Sexy contralto held no more emotion than before. The girl needed to see that bliss was earned. Never given, never granted. The Lady was determined to fill the empty cunt in ways the girl had only dreamed of...but if the girl wanted to hear her? She would have to earn it...

and she would.

Steps to the desk~hand grabbing one supple latex glove and lube...for later use. Then the Lady retraced her steps, joining the girl on the bed.


"You had the toy...and now...you get my mouth..."

The Lady started slowly...kissing pretty rose bud mouth, nibbling on throat and collar bone. She drifted downward. Mouth and teeth tasting, teasing every bit of flesh. Taking her time. Making it count. There were whimpering moans. The Lady ignored them. Legs trembled from being held up in the air and spread so far apart. The Lady ignored that as well.

Instead she concentrated on the journey. Not pausing until she reached the pale pink cunt laid open by straining legs, gaping thighs. Mouth paused there. for just a moment..before teeth and tongue began to slowly suckle, nibble and taste...hardened clitoris.
 
The girl didn't hesitate, to lick, to suck, but there wasn't much time to enjoy the deep, musky, sweaty taste of the Lady. A subtle shaking was the only sign, and the girl barely noticed it. Was it really an orgasm?

There was no time to think. Scurrying steps let the girl to the bed and she nearly jumped into it, falling onto soft sheets, grabbing legs, pulling knees up and wide apart, straining tendons to exposed a still aching, still stretched cunt.

With her head turned, the girl saw the lady. Every movement measured, perfect grace, dancer's movements. A soft moan of pleasure, just watching. Lube, glove. Handpuppet. Yes!

Not yet though. Something unexpected. A kiss, soft and teasing. Lips trailing down her skin, slow, teasing, building. Cunt is wet, so aching wet again. Mewls, squeaks, then low groans. The Lady KNOWS. How does she know so easily? Who cares.

The girl tries to spread her legs wider, stretching past endurance to get more pleasure.
 
The Lady teases, suckles, explores. She never eases up, never quits. Never stops. Not until the girl is a pulsating, quivering, mess so very close to orgasm. Then, The Lady ceases.

Dark eyes see the puddle under pale ass. Sees the pubic area that hunches upward against nothing. Pretty legs held open for so long, trembling with agony and sweet, sweet bliss.

The Lady smiles.

She picked up the glove and slipped it onto a small hand. The Lady smoothed it carefully, up to the elbow. Then she took the lubricant and worked into the palm, the knuckles, the fingers, the covered forearm. Her eyes focus on the writhing, shaky girl.


"Ready"
 
Building, building, building, the need to orgasm, control being pushed away by all the teases and tug, licks and pulls, then without warning, a stop. The girl;s hands relax just a little, so the strain is less on her tendons, but still open wide.

The Lady put on the long glove. Not just hand. Forearm. The girl gulps, eyes wide. Hand puppet. Two unsexy words sounding so fucking sexy.

"Ready?"

The girl bites her lip and relaxes herself, body, mind, cunt. Yes.

"Yes, I'm ready."

Her body shakes, unsure if she is ready to handle it, but the craving, the absolute need to be filled takes control. A dildo isn't enough. A cock isn't enough. Fingers aren't enough. No.

A fist. The Lady's fist. The girl needs it. Badly.
 
The Lady seats herself between splayed thighs and reaches one hand out to stroke quivering labia. Girl is shaking. needing. So very scared. So very empty. But turning someone into a hand puppet? Takes...times. The girl is dripping wet. Her cunt gaping from hard use. And even though the lady has very small hands, delicate even. It will still be so very tight.

She starts slow. One finger. Two. A third. A fourth. The rhythm is slow, steady, deep. Four fingers bunch. Stretching. Stroking. More lubricant then....and slowly, with delicate precision, hand is fisted closed and slipped...inside. Takes twisting. Takes moving. Takes getting past the entrance to wet gaping cunt and the hardness of the pubis...the cradle.

But...she does it...and once inside. Cunt muscles clench wrist and the girl shakes. Uncontrollably.


"More?"
 
The girl counted, just like the strikes from the paddle, and suddenly aware of that soreness, the heat of her bottom that was forgotten with every other act, and she squirmed on the bed, trying to lift her ass up from the bed.

One finger. Moan, soft, but not nearly enough, not close to the blue gelcock.

Two fingers. Better, nice, but the girl didn't want nice, not anymore.

Three fingers. God, fuck yes. She scream, but muted.

Four fingers. Closer, better, full, still not enough. Louder moans, and wide, wild eyes on the Lady.

Fist. The girl saw it, small hand, but any fist looks large, a balls of fingers.

"Fuck, put it in me!"

Turning, twisting, stretching, pain, fuck, glorious stretching and pain.

"YES! FIST ME!"

Crude, vulgar words. There would be more.

"Give me more, please!"

The words are desperate, needy.
 
The Lady's empty hand slaps the back of a taut thigh, even as she presses forward with the fist that is lodged into the girls wet hole. Another slap. Another slow inch of movement. Now, the cunt is filled. Latex gleams as juices drip over, down, puddling.The Lady presses harder. A quarter of her toned forearm is lodged deep inside and she can feel the girls womb opening at the top of her fisted hand.

Another slap. Hard. Stinging. The sound echoes around the room and it makes the Lady gloriously, ridiculously happy. She smiles then. Wide. Wicked.


"Shall I stop now, pretty?? Or maybe withdraw?"

She keeps the grin, her fisted hand making slow withdrawing movements as the other hand rakes sharp nails over pale flesh. Legs. Belly. The under curve of the girl's ass. Over and over, even as she is allowing her fist to inch out and return, with insidious slowness.

"I can stop if you want...but I will not give you any more...unless I hear you beg. In sweet girly words. No cursing at me. Ask me sweetly..."
 
Throbbing. Pounding. All the girl's blood rushing to her channel, her abdomen, her legs where the slaps and scraped are. There is no blood for thinking, only feeling and screaming.

Her entrance tugs on the lubed latex, not wanting to let it go. The girl's breath caught, until the pulling stops, the fullness still complete. It's almost enough, but not quite. Pounding, not her heartbeat, but pounding by the fist. Yes. Ask. Beg.

"I can stop if you want...but I will not give you any more...unless I hear you beg. In sweet girly words. No cursing at me. Ask me sweetly..."

God, more words? Why more words, didn't she know? The Lady knew. She wanted the words.

"Please, oh, god, please, give me more, please, I want more of your fist, your arm in me. Pound me, Pound me deep inside. Oh god PLEASE!" A desperate scream. Enough? Please let it be enough. She didn't think she could manage more. The girl held the vulgarity out of her begging, trying to be sweet.

"Please, Miss, Mistress, please more... please more of your fits in me, your arm, please, please!"
 
A nod...and then the Lady leans forward, slapping the girl's hands away, allowing trembling legs to drift to the bed. The Lady adjusts the girl's feet, placing them flat against the bed, legs open as wide as possible. She scoots closer, so that her fisted hand does not have that far to travel, so that the fullness will stay and stay. So that she can pummel the girl with pressure, pleasure.

"Good girl."

Nothing else then. No more words. They are not needed. The heat, the tightness, the utter wanting stretched out before her causes the Lady's smile to widen...and then she begins. Hard. Fast. Deep. Over and over and over. The other hand she uses to touch lightly~clitoris, nipples~left and right~ over and over.

She fists from the shoulder, her wrist rotating in the girl's tightness. In and out, laughing delightedly as inner pink walls cling to latex on each withdrawing motion. She is whispering to the pretty little cunt. talking to her, moaning with her, breathing hard for her...


"Is that what you want, hmmm? Can you come for me this way? Do you want to come for me this way, fist touching your womb, pounding you? Is this what you want..."

Now, if the girl could focus~she'd hear all of the things the Lady's voice had been missing for the past hour...joy, deep contentment, welling excitement. Now the Lady and the girl were one entity.
 
Eyes fluttering, body adjusted, feeling outside herself, the girl was barely understanding. Where was she? She didn't really know. She only knew that her cunt was filled, more than it had ever been, and she loved it.

Her whole body, sweaty, hot, breathing shallow and rapid, needing now a release, and it gets closer as the Lady start to move, using her entire arm. So fucking hot, seeing the twisting, the muscles moving all the way up. Then the girl sees the Lady's eyes. Sudden full, sparkling, not empty and serious. The change, why?


"Is that what you want, hmmm? Can you come for me this way? Do you want to come for me this way, fist touching your womb, pounding you? Is this what you want..."


The girl nodded, but there was no change in the arm, the movement steady, deep, pushing hard against her womb, but not more. Nodding wasn't enough.

"Pl..please yes, please I want to come like this, with you filling me, fisting me, yes, please. Oh God, never take it out, please leave it in. Oh God it's so good, I'm going to explode, I'm going to pass out, oh God."

The girl didn't realize right away that her nails were digging hard into her skin, just a hir from breaking the skin there. Her tendons strained, ready to give in. She had to control, to keep going until the release came.
 
She begs and whimpers and so the Lady gives the rest of it. She eases closer, kneeling slightly and begins to move, faster, faster. Never coming the whole way out, always staying just within the boundaries of full out fucking. Harder. Faster.

The Lady's breath streams out, her shoulder growing weary from the pressure, the way they are posed. It is hard, so very hard to keep this up for long, no matter how one trains for it. No matter if the woman is a woman or only a beast. It takes concentration. Steady. Fierce. Concentration.

The Lady's body shivers, convulses. But she doesn't stop. Will not stop. Because the empty little cunt is not yet full. Because the girl has not yet released. Because they are not yet finished, this is only the beginning. Fist batters womb, heat and friction making the wrist, the hand, ache. doesn't matter. The girl needs...and the Lady wants.


"Come on, pretty."
 
Too much, far too much to cum. The girl wanted the movement to stop, to just be full and try to come that way, or did she? She couldn't think, couldn't speak, just scream, and her voice was giving out. The hammering fist and arm had made her throbbing flesh sore.

She needed something, anything to finally push her over. A word, a touch, a look. The girl gazed up in need, body tense, on the razor's edge, then thankfully a word. Three words.

"Come on, pretty."

Sweet relief, approval, affirmation. Screaming.

The girls sex convulsed, but with such fullness it couldn't full grip, releasing each time a second after grabbing. Limbs, arms and legs release, flailing, barely avoiding hitting the Lady. Blackness was coming, unstoppable blackness. Orgasm faded into it.
 
Pulling out after cunt muscles relax. Pulling away after the girl fades into blackness. The Lady curls up beside the girl, her strong arms wrapping around the pale one. Sleep comes upon the Lady in waves...until finally, she drifts...and fades to black.

END SCENE.
 
Thoughts on storms.

If the ending comes all at once? If the stopping place is reached before you are truly prepared for it? How do you move past it? She doesn't know. No one really knows.

It's like preparing for a tornado. You think you have done all you can. You think you've put up enough money for a rainy day. As a matter of fact, you are almost positive that the freaking tornado will miss your house, because it has, time and time again.

So when they call the storm warning? When others are slipping down and away, into their hidey holes? You are still sitting on your sofa. Listening as the winds howl and blow. Secure in the belief that the tornado will miss you, again. Secure in the belief that you will remain as lucky as you started. You sit there and by the time your house is being whirled away? Pulled into the dark battle gray sky. Falling apart?

It hits you. Just because the tornado usually skips your house? Doesn't mean it will, this time.
 
Solo Piece

Pounding heart. In my chest. In my ears. In my cunt. I don't know why. There is only darkness, and buzzing. I reach out with my hands and find smooth walls, like smooth stone, though warm. The buzzing sound draws me down and in, deeper into the darkness, and my bare feet find the same warm stone.

The buzzing feels like a voice, inside my brain, and as I walk deeper, feet making barely no noise, the buzzing clears slightly, enough to allow me to understand a single word: She.

She.

She.

She.

Steady like a heartbeat it pulls me, step by step, as the tunnel shrinks, until it barely allows my body to walk upright. A few more steps and I enter a cavernous space, with no walls, just a floor of the same smooth, warm stone. In the center, yards away, stand four torches of blue white light, with two chains in the middle of them.

With each step closer, the arousing, guiding buzz becomes stronger, pushing, still only that one word. I don't question who She is. I don't care. I only care about the chains and the shackles at the end of each. Within the square of torches, the voice becomes so powerful that I can't barely withstand it. I have to kneel and put my hands over my ears, almost crying out. The sound pulses, like a terrible heartbeat, and it tells me, somehow, that things will be better if I put the shackles on.

With my eyes barely open, my entire body tense, I put one shackle on my right ankle. The material, metal or stone, or something in between sears my flesh and bonds to it. The cry of pain breaks the pounding sound for a moment, but it returns just as strong, commanding me to put on the other shackle. I manage to do so, feeling the same burning on my skin as I'm bonded to the shackle. The chains draw back into the floor so that I can barely move my legs. Two more chains appear right in front of me from the floor, and attach themselves to my wrists, searing again.

On my hands and knees, the buzzing fades slowly, allowing me to breathe, to relax my mind, until there is just silence. There is no more sound but my breathe, there is no more warmth, as the stone turns cold. There is no more She.

The torches are suddenly extinguished, and I'm drawn down flat, bumping my chin, my breasts pressed to the cold stone. My arms and legs are pulled wide apart and I'm completely helpless, blind, in an empty, cold cavern.

As the silence extends, my skin prickles with fear. What if I'm left here, bound, cold, alone? Is this why I was drawn here?
 
Missing Pieces


There is a bit of me that has gone missing.
I checked for it, hither and thither and found
Not a scrap (nor a trace) of what I was trying to place

It's vanished.

A tiny portion of my heart, my soul, has been mislaid.
Tisn't in the cupboard nor my hope chest.
I know not (I looked so very hard) where else to look.

It's gone.

And it seems to me that people can not live
With bits of them missing. Am I wrong in that belief?
It would be like swimming through air, no buoyancy.

Flat. Gone.

Or sipping water with your nose.
An incorrect action. Not right.
A miscarriage of rightness, truth, life.

Wrong.

So, the bits of me that are missing?
If you would stumble across one heart, slightly broken?
One soul, lightly tarnished? Not black, like mine had been.

Pick it up.

I need replacement parts.
 
The last of her form fades. She becomes nebulous. A thing apart. Not ever seen by any eye not looking upon her in love. Her race is where the stories of succubi originated. Her race. Long gone from this solar system. Fled from the fighting and the wars that destroyed their sun, so many ages ago. She is one of the only ones left.

T'So.

This universe's most famous whores. To become what is wished for. To appear to be all that one desires. To be welded to a shape for the time it takes to mate and move on. A gift. A curse. Very few know the truth.

They can appear to be any sex, any thing. Only eyes filled with love will hold them to their true form. But who would ever love an alien that looks the way she does? All T'so are hermaphrodites. All T'So are winged and onyx in color. All T'so are clawed and fanged and fierce.

They are warriors. Spies. Whores.

They have been that way since before the universe opened it's secrets. They had never changed. They were....unchanging. Un-evolving. Perfect predators. Perfect prey. Perfection.

Highly sought after. Bought and sold like chattel when captured young enough, at least among the stars newest peoples. Those who have only learned space travel in the past thousand years. Like the humans that blaze paths far from their home galaxy, solar system.

Her name is R'Lea. She is T'So and the only one of her kind in the Centauri star system. She travels by ship from place to place, never settling. Never appearing the same from one place to the next. She is lonely. Heart sick and close to ending what her long life has become.

She is T'So. Star Whore.
 
The Gateway Bar. Where the highest and the lowest meet to get drunk, stoned, or otherwise altered. The Gateway station at the edge of the Centauri system, linking the inhabited Centauri planets with the rest of the Universe. Zoerella Gis had seen almost everything in her 12 years behind the bar. Most of the known species traveled through the station to visit the Centauri system. It floated among the asteroids at the outer rim of the system, waiting for the ships to enter or leave.

Rella spent 12 hours of every cycle pouring drinks, listening to idle chatter and stopping the rare fight. The time spent on the station away from the light of the Centauri sun had robbed Rella's skin of much of it's color. Very pale, with nearly cherry red hair, she was always a topic of conversation by the various different patrons. They also spoke about the Centauri leather catsuit and gloves that she constantly wore. Rella never spoke the true reason for the outfit, demurring to a story of trying to show off her body to get the patrons to buy more drinks.

In truth, the catsuit was protect from some of the more dangerous races of the universe, whose skin was poisonous for humans to touch, or had chemical pheromones that made humans fall into a sexual frenzy. Rella had fallen victim to a male from the Tau Ceti system who nearly got her onto his ship, to be a human slave on his planet, before a friend found and rescued her. Until that time, she felt free to befriend and even sleep with the patrons she felt drawn to. In the three years since that time, she had been alone, wary.

Rella still had a friendly ear for anyone who came in with troubles, but there was no warm shoulder anymore. She never withdrew emotionally from anyone, just physically. She had few close friends, and those that she had were the other regulars on the station. The captain, the crew, and several of the shop owners on the lower deck.

Despite the wall that Rella displayed, she felt comfortable with her choice in life. The only missing part was someone she could open up to, to trust, and to love.
 
Micah~ The Awakening.

It is always odd when something forces you to rethink what you want from life. Falling in love, the birth of a child, the death of a friend. Being abandoned. These things are so utterly outside the realm of the every day that one just doesn't know what to do when it all comes down. When that final thing...occurs.

At least, I didn't.

Hell, I was lucky to remember my name after the demon had come and gone, taking my heart, my joy, the only love I had ever felt outside of myself, with him. I didn't want him back, though. Mortal is not meant to love immortal. And I...I was not meant to love a man. Any man. Any male.

So he was gone.

My joy went with him. For long weeks. I searched for it. The killing? Not as fun. The money, not as good. Nothing was as good, nothing meant as much. It was all flat and gray and painful and depressing and so very fucking sad.

Brittle, even.

Weeks pf this. Weeks of feeling half dead and being unable to focus. Unfeeling. A statue of a woman. And did I know what was missing? Did I understand that I had opened myself up completely for the very first time and been shot through the heart with a barbed hook?

No.

I thought I was just being dramatic. I should have known better. After all, true drama requires an imagination. I had never been blessed with that. I was good at killing because I couldn't imagine not being good at it. I had always been the perfect product of my environment.

A killer.

I proved nurture over nature.

Eventually, I woke up. Eventually, I realized that pain doesn't pounce, it meanders and sneaks up...and takes you by surprise.

SURPRISE!!

Bastard.

It was that day...to the very minute that I decided demons were bad news. I decided that day that I should stop them from playing their stupid little games with mortal kind. They didn't belong on this earth. They were not meant to live in slow time. They were of the infinite. Or they would be, if they stayed away from me. In other words, to not put too fine a point on it....

I woke up.

Love is good. Revenge for love? Even better. Revenge for the sake of it? For the sheer hot blooded rampage it caused? Best if served coldly, methodically. I could do that. I could be that. I could give that.

Love is only useful when it burns you to a cinder and reforms you, wakes you up.

I am awake.
 
Michaela Monroe (Background for Pandorica)

Michaela

A boi, queer. Androgynous in the extreme. Always understood that there was something missing, an essential bit that needed to be there, between thighs that cupped the wrong pieces.

She grew up hating her name. Once it became clear (to her) that she would never be a Michaela, or even a Kayla...she started demanding that people call her Mikey. It suited. Much better. It worked on so many levels that by the time she left tech high behind, no one ever thought of her as HER...just...Mikey.

It soothed. Made the boi feel almost real. The jobs she took on after graduation? They contributed to that sense of self. Added to the queerness, the need to be one of the guys. A woman couldn't fit in, doing construction, working on road crews, laying hot asphalt in the summer. Only a boi. Only a man.

Mikey wasn't a man. She only dressed the part, looked the part...five days a week. The guys in her crew? They didn't fuck with her, didn't ask questions about what she did or how she did it. Half of them were jealous at her ability to pull supposedly straight women...and the other half wanted to try and turn her straight. She knew it. She didn't care.

Haters hate. That is what they do.

Two years ago

She had discovered that by keeping her body fat low, she didn't have a monthly cycle. That made her feel...more like what she wanted to be. The next step? Talking to a doctor about getting on hormone therapy to begin the change from female to male. It took time, patience. But she had those in abundance.

Her girl left her. Said~ "I am lesbian, not straight. I don't want a man. Can't you just be who you are?"

Mikey's answer? "I am trying to be who I am."

So, no dating, no sex, no love. That didn't matter, either. Those things only detracted from the journey. And the journey of self discovery was just beginning.

Six months ago

He never thinks of him self as woman, only boi, only man...only male. He never refers to himself as Michaela nor does he answer to it. Only Michael or Mikey. He never leaves his home in anything but male gear, never leaves without his strap, never attempts to look girlier. Why would he?

His cohorts at the job don't comment. They get it. They understand in some odd male way that Mikey is JUST like them...only....not. Doesn't matter.
 
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Once Upon A Time.

Once upon a time....

Doesn't every fairy tale start there?

Once upon a time when we all lived in the forest and no one lived any where else...
Once upon a time, there were three brothers...
Once upon a time, there was a girl child...
Once upon a time, in the land of make believe.

I used to love those stories. The ones that ended with happily ever after. I used to scrape and pray for my very own happy ending. But it doesn't happen in real life. In the Real World, all you have is happy for long enough. Happy until someone dies or someone leaves...Happy until the story is officially over.

And you are not allowed to point out that~

1. They lied in all of those fairy tales.
2. They didn't prepare you for the truth.
3. No one ever said that your heart would be broken, over and over.
4. No one ever warned you that stories are not life.

Stories have an ending. Definitive. Brutal. Not even really truthful. They feed you a steady diet of "once upon a time" and "happily ever after" but they never tell you it only works if you are straight, girly, quiet and princess like. If you do as you are told, all the time. If you never have a thought. Never ask a question. Never try to be something they don't want you to be.

Liars.

I have had my once upon a time. I have had my "when we all lived in the forest and no one ever lived anywhere else". So, what i want to know is~when do I get my...

Happily Ever After.

Will it come before...

The End?
 
Thoughts on Suicide~ A Killer's Perspective.

The hunt never ends. It just goes on and on, unceasing. You clamber up, over roof tops and dead bodies. You go down~into the sewers, into those places nice people never, ever talk about. You search for it~ that thing that let's you know that you are alive for a reason.

You never stop looking.

Until, one day, it hits you. There isn't a reason, not really. You are formed from cells and odds bits of left over things from hundreds of thousands of years ago. There is no plan. Nothing but the infinite. There is no God, only what mankind dreams up. There is nothing that makes it all worth while.

So...on that day, you stop. You sit in your room, alone, cold, unblinking, unthinking. You stare at the walls~cold and dismal and gray. You stare at the sharp, pretty, pointy thing that leaves trailing red lines like a benediction kissed to flesh and you decide...

enough.

Colors come back~sharper, clearer, cleaner. You only come alive when you feel like dying.
And that strikes you as so utterly odd that you begin to think. Why should you end your own life? It ain't much, but it's all you're given. Why should the sharp pointy pretty taste your flesh? There are others out there, who deserve it much more.

And it is then, on the cusp of self erasure that you understand what your reason for living really is. You are a hunter. One that takes from others the one thing they value~their breath. Their lives. You are a killer. You can accept that, embrace it, relish it or you can end it.

Which way do you go?

Once you understand the rules, what is needful, what is necessary? Do you turn your back on your self discovery and end it...or do you...accept the wildness as your due...and go out into the world...a new thing, a deadly thing, a killer?

What do you do?

No matter. I don't care what you would do. I care about what I will do. So, the knife for me or for you?

Me.

You.

Tick.

Tock.

Think.
 
A Poem by Sasha~

Wet

Inside, the trickle at the top of the mountain starts,
When the touch starts, and moves to my core.
The trickle becomes a stream, as teeth bit my neck,
Growing with a quiet fury.
The stream turns to a river as she claims my cunt,
Fingers plunging, stretching, into the river itself.
She become the dam to stop the flow, with her fist.

Knuckle scraping, the earth body shakes, the river wants to flow,
But she stops it.
The river is hers to control, to release. My cunt.
The quake hits, but the dam holds, buried in me,
Slowly withdrawn, the dam bursting, she drinks from me.
 
Michalina

New to the life, in comparison with the others in the compound. She is only thirty years undead, saved by Dar from true death on one of Dar's missions for Lucien. She worships Dar and will do ANYTHING for the woman who made this unlife, no matter how boring it is, possible.

She has yet to devolve into the monstrosities Lucien seems to favor and finds him rather overwhelming and inhuman. She worries that she will be the same, the longer she stays trapped in the cavern but is too scared to leave...as others have done.

She is young. Unsure. Untried.

And she has a lover. One who doesn't let her apparent youth and newness scare him away.

He and Darya provide the only safety she knows.

She will kill for them.
 
WTF

What do you want?
I want it all.

When?
Now.

You?
Just me.

What about them?
Fuck them, they wont be buryed in the box with me.

But some 'them', will want to be.
They are not included in them.

So there are them and them.
Yes.

Its that easy for you isnt it.
Yes.

What about them then?
I would climb in the box willingly for them.

When?
Now.

But what about "it all".
it would be done.

Done.
Done.
 
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