Stick Around

The hole is a dark, ragged maw in the flimsy drywall. From the shadows beyond, something pushes through. It is a twisted, purplish shaft, glistening under the flickering fluorescent light. Grotesquely veined, the skin is mottled like a bruise, and from its tip, a thick, yellowish fluid drips steadily, a foul cocktail that splatters onto the filthy tile floor.

The smell hits me then, cutting through the disinfectant. It is a cloying, sweet-sour reek of decay and ammonia. The boot on the other side taps once, a demand. My stomach clenches, a purely human revolt. But beneath the disgust, a different part of me stirs, cold and assessing. The succubus in me doesn't flinch from corruption, it is a language I understand.

This isn't desire. It is a dark mirror, a reflection of the hunger that lives insids my own bones, twisted into this crude, physical form. The conflict is a silent scream inside my skull, the woman who wants to vomit and flee, and the predator who sees only a source of potent, if polluted, lifeforce. My hands, which are braced against the cold tiles, tremble.

The trembling in my hands stills and a terrible calm descends. The woman recoils, but the demon sees an opportunity, a chance to taste the power in this corruption, to turn its foulness into strength. My fingers, pale against the grimy tiles, uncurl. Slowly, deliberately, I reach out, my hand closing around the mottled shaft.

The skin iss fever-hot and unnaturally smooth, like wet leather. A fresh gout of that foul fluid seeps over my knuckles, warm and viscous, like a popped blister. On the other side of the wall, the man lets out a low, guttural sigh of satisfaction. My own breath catches, not in pleasure, but in the grim, focused intent of the huntress taking hold of her prey.

The man on the other side shudders, his muffled groans growing more frantic. The movement of my hand is a slow, deliberate exploration. I map the grotesque landscape of him, the thick, pulsing veins that stand in ropey relief against the strange, ridge-like textures. My thumb circles the swollen head, smearing the leaking fluid, using it to ease the glide of my palm.

The rhythm I set is a languid, almost sensual pull, a dark parody of intimacy. With each stroke, I feel a weak, thready pulse of vitality, not clean life ****, but something murky and potent, like swamp water. I lean closer, the chemical stench of the bathroom mingling with his particular decay.

My tongue darts out, tasting the bitter dribble at his tip. It tastes foul, but the energy within it is a dark, buzzing current. Closing my eyes, I take him into my eager mouth with a hungry, encompassing greed. My lips stretch around his unnatural girth, my tongue working against the ridges.

I suck deeply, pulling not just on flesh, but on the core of him, drawing the tainted vitality up in a slow, intoxicating stream. His groans turned into choked, **** pleas, fingers scrabbling against the other side of the wall. I focus on that pulse, drawing it toward me with a gentle, insistent suction of my will, beginning to siphon the corrupted energy.

His taste floods my senses, a rancid honey that makes my jaw ache as I **** myself to take him deeper. The head of his cock hits the back of my throat and I swallow reflexively, the convulsive motion pulling a ragged shout from him. My nose presses into the coarse hair at his base, the entire length of him buried in me.

I hold there for a moment, a dark, full silence, feeling his frantic pulse against my tongue. Then I draw back, my lips sliding with a filthy wet sound, only to plunge down again, establishing a relentless, deep rhythm. With each descent, I drink him in, the corrupted energy a hot, syrupy rush down my own throat, feeding the hollow ache of my hunger. His pleas become wordless, animal sounds.

The rhythm becomes everything, a slick, hungry metronome in the grimy stall. My hand works the base of him in time with my mouth, twisting on the upstroke, feeling the way his whole body shudders against the wall. His taste is still foul, but the power in it is real, a dark, electric current that sparks along my nerves and eases the gnawing void inside me.

I moan around him, the vibration wringing a choked gasp from his lips. My free hand slips between my own thighs, finding the hot, aching wetness there, and I rub slow, tight circles as I suck him deeper, harder, turning this vile transaction into something that feels, for a **** moment, like mutual ruin.

His release is a sudden, violent flood, bitter and thick, and I swallow every pulse of it, drawing the last dregs of that murky energy into myself. The climax that rips through me is just as raw, a sharp, clenching wave that has me trembling against the partition, my own cry muffled around him. For a few heartbeats, there is only the sound of our ragged breathing and the drip of a leaky faucet. Then, he pulls away, the grotesque member slipping from my lips with a final, wet sound.