From the author: Dark erotica
In the dark, I hear you scuttle across the wood floor. You move swiftly past me, air flowing over my naked skin, and the sensation gives me goosebumps.
You stop and so do I. Both of us motionless, both of us listening for the slightest sound. You for my breathing, me for the soft click-click-click of your legs. But I hold my breath, you remain absolutely still, and neither of us hear a thing.
I run my hands across my chest, brush my nipples with my fingertips and try to imagine the soft skin of my hands is cold, firm, and smooth – like you. The thought makes me stiffen, and my penis grows half erect. I could reach down and stroke myself, make it harden the rest of the way, but I don’t. I’d rather leave it like this for a bit, halfway between soft and hard. Anticipation makes culmination that much sweeter.
The room is large, and as the only furniture is the bed pushed up against one of the walls, sound echoes here in ways that make it difficult for me to judge it where you’re at. I think you’re five feet away at least, maybe ten, but you’re much closer than I think, and I feel one of your chelicerae gently touch the back of my knee. The claw’s contact is unexpected – I didn’t hear you move at all – and I can’t stop myself from jumping a little. Fear zings through me, bringing with it an adrenal rush, and it’s all I can do to keep from running. But I force my feet to remain where they are, imagine that they’re glued to the floor. This is how we play the game, and besides, if I run you might become too excited and chase me as if I were prey. And when you caught me – and you would, because in a real chase I could never hope to outrun you – you could get carried away. The last time that happened, it took me almost a month to heal, and we couldn’t play the entire time. I don’t want to go through that again. Yes, the pain was unpleasant, but the separation from you was so much worse. I don’t want to go through that again.
You step toward me and press your pedipalps against my hips, your chitin cool and smooth as polished bone. You push firmly, trapping my testicles between my legs, squeezing them. It hurts a little, but it creates a warm tingling in my balls, and my cock instantly hardens all the way. You move a little closer, and you stroke my ass with your chelicerae, their hair-like protrusions ticking, and the sensation sends an electric jolt shooting from my prostate to the tip of my cock. My shaft begins bobbing up and down in time with my pulse, and I feel the head moisten with semen. I almost come right then, but I grit my teeth and picture myself lying in the hospital bed, bandaged and healing, but alone. The memory makes the urge to climax retreat. It doesn’t go away entirely, but I think I’ve got myself under control again, which is all that matters. I don’t want to come too early, for my sake as much as yours.
You continue stroking my backside with your chelicerae, and you move your right claw into position and gently, agonizingly slowly, you take my throbbing penis within it and begin squeezing, bringing the two sections of your pedipalp together, one millimeter at a time. I know that you could close your claw like a pair of scissors and sever my penis from my body as easily as if it were made of paper instead of meat. But this is part my excitement, feeling your power and strength, knowing that I’ve surrendered to you. My cock swells, tightens, and I imagine it first reddening from the blood trapped within, then purpling like a deep dark bruise. You continue squeezing, your claw tightening with surgical precision, and I don’t know if I can take much more of this before my control shatters and semen shoots out of me like water from a firehose. But then you release me, and the sudden absence of pressure is almost more than I can take.
I expect you to skitter off so we can continue playing tag, but instead you back up, fasten your claws around my waist, and lift me off the floor. You carry me then, legs clicking in a rapid beat as you swiftly take me to the bed. I smile because I know you’re turned on too, so much so that you can’t wait any longer.
When we reach the bed you leap onto it, still holding me, and roll onto your back, legs in the air. You put me down on top of you and release me. I can’t see your claws – the room is absolutely pitch dark – but I know you relax them to the sides until they almost touch the floor, as you always do. I move into position and my cock slides through your aperture and deep into your genital chamber. It feels like coming home.
I start moving in and out, slowly at first, the segments of your mesosoma rippling beneath me. But soon we’re moving faster, both of us unable to hold back any longer. I’m thrusting harder, faster, and you’re undulating so rapidly I fear I might be thrown off, like a bronc-buster tossed out of the saddle. My breath is coming in ragged gasps and with it wordless grunts. Uh-uh-uh-uh-uh . . . I hear a hissing sound, and I know you’re rubbing your pedipalps against your front legs, something you do when you’re nearing climax. There’s something else you do as you get close to coming, and I picture it now. In my mind I see your tail curl upward and inward, bringing your telson toward me. I see a drop of venom welling from your aculeus, like a pearl of semen emerged from my cock earlier. Then I feel the pin-sharp tip of your stinger touch the skin between my shoulder blades, dimpling the skin. I feel a line of liquid trickle along my spine, and I can’t hold back any longer. I explode within you, but even as I come, even as I feel you climax beneath me – your genital chamber pulsing so much like a human vagina – I don’t feel the one sensation I was hoping to, the one I’ve been waiting so long for. My cock continues its last spasms, but I don’t care anymore, and I roll of you, my penis already beginning to soften. As I flop onto the bed – the unbroken skin of my back hitting the sheet – I begin to cry.
You crawl on top of me, close me tightly within your eight legs and stroke my tear-stained cheeks with the tips of your claws. Then you whisper to me in a voice that sounds like the hissing your claws made rubbing against your legs.
I’m sorry. I couldn’t. You pause. Maybe next time.
But you won’t. You love me too much – or maybe not enough.
In the dark, you hold me, and I weep.
This story originally appeared in Great Jones Street.