Playing with a Devil

He took her by the throat, a low…

[strikethrough: throaty] [insertion: threatening]

growl rolling off his…

[strikethrough: lips] [insertion: chest]

as he…

[strikethrough: gradually] [insertion: slowly]

led her back, until her…

[strikethrough: naked] [insertion: bared]

flesh pressed against the cold stone wall.

“Ughhh!”

Click. Click, clickclickclick…

My finger hovers over delete, punching it down again and again. My other hand grabs at my collar, hooking my fingers beneath the fabric and yanking it away from my skin, fanning myself impatiently as the flush spreads rapidly over my whole body.

Four years.

It’s been four long years since another human being last touched my body. Since I last felt the head of a man’s cock slip past my lips and glide along my tongue, or that exquisite stretch when he finally enters me. Four fucking years since I felt a pair of large, powerful hands gripping my naked breasts and whispering beautifully filthy yet loving words into my ear.

I’m a god damned smut-writer; I make word porn for a living. Okay, so maybe I don’t really make any kind of money off it, but what it does for me is so much deeper. Being this sexually and creatively dry should be a fucking crime. Lock me up, because the longer I go without being touched—or practicing my submission with a Dominant—the more distant my recall of what a dick even feels like inside me becomes. All things I need to keep my scenes hot and enticing, to keep my connection to romance and intimacy fluid. And the more disconnected I become from those things, the more inept I feel at sex or writing, period.

I am more than touch-starved, more than mausoleum-dry, more than romance-deprived.

I am disconnected from feeling any intimacy when I write it.

I need to feel my scenes, my characters, the way they speak, the tension between them.

If I can’t feel what I write, I can’t write.

If I can’t write, I can’t breathe.

Right now, I am not Bastian; I am Atreyu’s horse, Atrax, and that swamp of loneliness is swallowing me whole.

I can’t get disconnected. I can’t…

I’m not. I am not disconne—I’m just being sensitive…. I’m in my head, that’s it. Everything is fine! Dandy, even!

The denial is so obvious, yet I don’t give a flying fuck. I need to persevere even if that means boldly lying to myself.

A shadow moves up on my left.

“You look like me two years ago. Writing well drying up on you?” says a deep, rumbly voice. I glance up, not truly trusting I’m the one he’s talking to, only to find a pair of light silver eyes locked on mine. II stare into them. Their intensity feels searing, like this stranger can see everything, every quirk, every good, bad, and in-between of me. But more than that, there’s warmth and this odd ripple of safe invitation behind them.

I don’t know this man, how can I feel and see all that about him?

“Oh, and she’s got those pretty siren eyes too,” he says to no one, as it’s just us in this corner of the cafe.

The rush of people needing a wake-up call before starting their day is already gone, leaving just the few of us late-starters and a handful of running-behind rushers in the drive-through. I like to come at this hour when the loud craziness has ebbed and flowed on out; that’s the magic time to hit the café for some late morning writing. When it’s not so loud with chatter that I can’t think straight.

It’s an industrial yet chic café with a view of the harbor. I’ve been coming here off and on since I tried their melt-in-your-mouth almond croissant. One does not simply taste that deliciousness and walk away unburdened by the need for more. No, one gets addicted and tries often to sweet-talk the baker into sharing the recipe by becoming a regular, drinking lots of mochas, wearing dresses with lots of boobage, and flashing a sweet smile.

I found this place just up the block from my home after moving here. The moment I noticed they had taken a large old Hollywood-style light-up marquee sign and hung it from the ceiling, its glowing face turned downward like a chandelier, I fell in love. It wasn’t there to pull attention from the street, but simply to light up their space. That kind of creativity paired with their decadent food sparks inspiration.

“So are you?” he asks.

I can tell from my hot cheeks that I’m blushing pretty badly after his compliment. What is there to say without sounding totally ridiculous? I’m not used to compliments. I smile, though I’m pretty sure it comes across as more of a grimace.

“Uh, I’m sorry, am I what?” I stammer.

“A writer.”

“Oh. Y-yes, yes, I am?”

“Hmm. You seem unsure of that.”

“Well,” I scrunch my brows and look at him thoughtfully, “how do you know when you’ve reached a point where you can confidently claim such an honored title?” Immediately regretting my answer, I look down at my empty cup. Too much, Ellie, too much.

He chuckles, his lips curved into a sexy smile. The kind I always notice people who are aware of their attractiveness tend to give, using their looks to get what they want.

I wonder what he wants.

I take in a quick once-over of him, noting his wide shoulders, thick frame, veiny hands, and long beard. This man has the patience to not only grow a beard to his belly button, but to groom it. I wonder how those whiskers would feel against my—never mind.

Blushing even harder now.

“Well, if that isn’t a clear confirmation, I don’t know what is,” he says warmly. “I’m Bram, by the way.”

“Bram? Must get a lot of pitchforks pointed at you.”

“Meh, I just turn into a bunch of little bats and fly away the moment anything pointy comes into play.”

“Do your arms get tired? I mean, if you have so many bodies to fly in, they must, right?”

“You know, no one has ever asked that before. I like the way you think…” he leans in, giving me that look that says he’s waiting for me to offer my name.

“Ellie.”

“Ellie. Nice to meet you, Ellie. So, what do you write?”

“Ahem, romance.” I shift, bracing myself for the inevitable judgement most everyone gives when declaring my genre.

“Are we talking Jane Austen-romance, or more like Lexi Foss?” his voice pitched low for some semblance of privacy between us.

My eyes flash, “How do you know Lexi Foss?”

“Aha! So, dark, poetic, super steamy smut then. Nice. I write the male equivalent. Ever heard of Thayne Stormwood?”

“He’s the author of that gothic horror-gasm romance, Gloryhole in the Grave. I loved that book—the way Oberon taunted Verity through the cemetery; his brutal claiming of her body and soul in that mausoleum. And that scene where he awakens her spirit by creating a gloryhole in her grave and feeding her his magical seed? So hot. It actually inspired me to take a few evening strolls myself.”

I roll my eyes dramatically as memories of those strolls—and the filthy scenes I imagined myself playing a part in, had I been Verity—flash through my mind, fanning myself yet again.

“Now that is the kind of book review an author likes to hear,” he says with a smile. “Glad I could inspire you to challenge yourself like that.” A little pink flushes his cheeks.

And that’s when it hits me, and I literally cough over my own saliva.

Really attractive, Ellie.

“Wait… You’re Thayne Stormwood?!”

“At your service.” He takes a little bow, winking at me.

“Wow! I don’t know what to say. Thank you? For writing a book that reached in and grabbed me. Please don’t stop… writing, I mean.”

“Those are easily the best kind of words every man likes to hear, siren eyes,” he purrs. “So, why the frustrated delete dance with your keyboard?”

I feel it again, that ripple of safety. Taking a breath, I go for honesty.

“I—I just haven’t been getting that connection lately with…” I look around and pitch my voice low. “With the sex scenes, the dirty talk, the romance. Intimacy and I are on the outs, and it’s killing my writing flow.”

“Mhmm. I’ve been there. A few times.”

“What did you do to fix that?” I ask, leaning in more, ready to absorb anything and everything he can offer for help.

He leans in with me, “Have you ever heard of SinfulWhispers.com?”

I shake my head.

“It’s a chat site where writers help writers, we all thrive together. You can create a profile, upload a character map and scene outline for your current project, and then other writers will review it, and if they feel pulled to it, they’ll reach out. You roleplay as your main character; they play the love interest according to what you’ve designed for them and Bob’s your uncle. You get your project done by literally transporting yourself into the story to see it better.”

“Holy shit, why haven’t I found that before? Thank you! That sounds perfect!”

“I hope it helps! Well, it was truly wonderful visiting with you, Ellie; maybe we’ll run into each other again. I have a meeting I have to get to, so I bid you a fond adieu.” he stands from his chair, holds out his hand for a shake, which I take, but instead of sliding our palms together, he grips my fingers and pulls me close kissing my hand. Then grabbing his drink, Thayne—or Bram, walks to the door, tossing the empty cup in the bin and shooting me a smile before sauntering out.

Holy fuck! Who knew Thayne Stormwood was so hot!

Turning back to my laptop, I pull open a new tab and go to the site he gave me. I work feverishly to paint a really full picture of where I am in the story and what I need.

Project Title: Dancing with a Devil

Characters: Moloch and Ismeria, also known as ‘little omega/little beggar/little terror’

Scene Direction: ‘little omega’ is chained, imprisoned in another world. Moloch, her keeper, taunts her as he processes her body for his needs. Moloch is no human man, instead, a devil.

Trigger Warning: Non-consensual/dud-con, Stockholm syndrome, Impact-play, Bondage, & Omega/Alpha heat/rut dynamics.

Note: Must be comfortable and experienced with perverse conversation and taunting banter. Little omega has a brat streak, after all.

“Ok, now I wait. I hope someone answers soon; my deadline is in a week.” I whisper to myself; I don’t want anyone to overhear me and think I’m crazy for talking to myself in public. Though that’s probably exactly what I am.

Packing up my things, I head out to run some errands.