NEW DARK FICTION: Whatever the beast was - it was not imagination. There was a realness here - dark, lascivious, realness...

 

Whatever the beast was - he, she, it - was not imagination. There was realness here - dark, lascivious, realness.

He took a deep breath, let it out with a long drawn out sigh, and tried to decide what to do next. But what do you do with a beast always at your back, always trying to catch you out, find you vulnerable, defences down? A beast that has a hunger that can never be quenched?

He felt movement in the stripped down room, heard the swish of age-old leather wings, the clack of bony fingers as they exercised fatal claws. Before he felt the inevitable dry tongue slavering at his throat - trying to find a sensual purchase, he had decided. He knew what he was to do, that he had to do to survive - intact.

He concentrated - raised his heartbeat, increased his pulse so that it fluttered unevenly. He allowed his skin to glisten with new-felt perspiration, his ankles and wrists to gently shake - all enticements for the beast.

Within an instant he was ready - and so was the beast.