The Unwrapping

I woke to the sound of steel against stone—a rhythmic, hungry scraping that spoke of edges and appetite.

My eyes opened to soft lamplight and the crackling promise of a fire being kindled. I was reclined on a soft sofa deep enough to swallow me whole, wrapped in a bathrobe of white cotton that felt impossibly soft against my skin. The air smelled of rosemary and thyme and something darker—smoke and anticipation.

I watched Lamia as she was sharpening several different kinds of large butcher knives. Seeing her preparing those tools for degutting and boning, her perky breasts vibrating with each strong arm movement, was highly erotic, my cock stirring.

The sharpening stopped.

"Welcome back, Robert."

Lamia stood by the fireplace, her silhouette dancing against the growing flames. She'd changed, or perhaps simply revealed herself—her crimson top replaced by something flowing and black that moved like liquid when she walked. The room filled with cozy warmth, the kind that makes limbs heavy and minds foggy.

She approached, still holding one knife in her small hand, her glacier eyes catching firelight. "Did you know," she whispered, kneeling beside the sofa, her fingers finding the collar of my robe, "that writers are more creative when they're naked?"

Before I could answer, one hand slipped behind my back, tugging the fabric down. I was too lethargic to resist, my body still thick with whatever she'd given me, my thoughts moving through syrup.

As I sat there slumped comfortably on that soft couch, my big erect cock in full view. Lamia grabbed with her one empty hand the base, but her hand could not fully wrap around it. "That's a lot of meat, darling.” She purred, the other hand, which was holding the knife, dangerously close to my male tool. One sudden move, I thought, and she would have a large sausage lying around on my flat stomach.

Thank god she slowly put away the knife, leaving it on the armrest off the sofa.

"Oh," she breathed, her gaze dropping to my feet again as the robe pooled around my ankles. "Did I tell you? You have nice feet."

Her hands found them—cool palms cupping my heels, thumbs pressing into the arches with practiced intimacy. "So smooth," she murmured, the tip of her tongue briefly touching her lower lip. In that brief second, her tongue looked weird. But my eyes must have fooled me. Because it was long, much longer than a human tongue. Weirdly slender and muscular, it had two distinct tips.

"So clean." She pressed a kiss to my instep, then another, her eyes closing as if tasting wine. "They look yummy."

She giggled, and the sound was wrong—too high, too eager, like a monster before candy.

"Here," she said, her voice dropping to that purr again. "Let me help you. Lean forward."

I obeyed, my body responding to her commands before my mind could question them. She worked the robe down my arms, slowly, taking her time as if unwrapping a gift she wanted to savor. Her fingers trailed across my shoulders and my back, leaving gooseflesh in their wake.

"Your skin," she whispered. "Like silk over marble."

She removed the robe entirely, and I sat there exposed, vulnerable, the firelight painting my skin in shades of gold and shadow. My head swam—I still felt as if someone had spiked my wine, my limbs heavy, my will suspended in amber.

Lamia's hands returned, sensual and deliberate. She touched my thighs, her fingers tracing the muscle there, creeping higher, near my crotch but never quite touching where I ached.

"I can feel your strength," she said, pressing into the quadriceps, the tendons. "Such strong legs. Such tension. Beautiful."

"Mmm," she hummed against my skin, placing little soft kisses. "You smell good."

"Where are my clothes?" I managed, my voice thick and distant.

She looked up from where she knelt between my legs, her dark hair a curtain around her face, her eyes reflecting the fire like a cat's. "You don't need them anymore; you will never need them again," she purred, and the finality of it should have terrified me, but I only felt warmth, acceptance, and the drugged complacency of the lamb who smells the rosemary and thinks itself beloved.

My cock stood hard against my stomach, betraying my fear with its eagerness, responding to her touch, her proximity, her attention.

Lamia noticed. She always noticed.

"Are you happy to see me?" she whispered, her breath hot against my thigh.

She reached out, one finger tracing the underside of my shaft, and I twitched—jumped—my hips bucking involuntarily toward her hand.

She laughed, soft and dark.

Then she moved.

She climbed onto the sofa, onto me, but it wasn't crawling—it was something else entirely. Her body rose above mine in waves, undulating like a serpent moving through grass, her hips swaying, her torso rippling in a way that human anatomy shouldn't allow. She slithered over my legs, her skin—was it skin? —sliding against mine with a friction that felt smooth, scaled, and *somehow wrong.

She positioned herself above me, her face descending until it hovered inches from mine. Her mouth opened, and I saw them clearly now—canines elongated into needles, curving slightly, made for gripping, for holding, for swallowing.

"You're perfect," she breathed, and her tongue—too long, forked at the tip—flicked against my lips. "Lean. Tasty. Mine."

The fire roared behind her, and I understood finally, completely, what kind of creature had invited me to dinner—and which of us was on the menu.

But my arms wouldn't move to push her away. My voice wouldn't scream.

I could only lie there, hard and helpless, as she prepared to feast.

To be continued.