Arjunas Descent Ch 01

It was trouble from the moment you made eye contact with...Her.

She's good...really damn good, in fact, and you can't help but feel a certain amount of hesitation when confronted with the reality of her likely superiority in the ring. The prospect of humiliation in front of a small crowd of your fellow MMA enthusiasts is not one that you relish, since you had a reputation to keep as a high-flying hawk of the amateur circuit. You're all friends here, but nobody denies the underlying current of competition that did as much to connect you all as to push you apart.

She, of course, had only come the last couple of times, and in both of those instances you'd been painfully distracted from the important task of dodging and weaving, blocking and striking, avoiding the grapple which had always been your weak point. It is simply that she - you'd yet to snatch her name from the air - is like some sort of violent poetry made manifest unto flesh.

Each strike at the punching bag:

WHAM

Shall I compare thee to a winter storm? Thou art more frigid and picturesque.

The way she wrestles her opponents into submission:

CRACKLE

Serpent, serpent, pale and bright, twisting through my dreams at night...

That gaze, stabbing down through your eyes into your heart:

SILENCE

She stalks in beauty, of crystal hewn, like whispered storms, the darkling moon...

Nobody needs to know about your inexpert verbal fumbling...that is for you, art you'd painstakingly dripped onto pages and crumbled, burned, or simply tossed away. It's your combat skills you take pride in, something

MANLY

and

POTENT

that can gain the attention of others, not your

vulnerable

,

flimsy

ink-scratch.

Of course, vulnerable and flimsy you are when facing off in the ring with her. You blanch at the prospect, arena-lighting a shining strip against the sheen of sweat covering your chest, your arms...it's always hot in this damn basement. The fingerless boxing gloves weigh your hands down, and your knees are stiff like cardboard. She, on the other hand, regards you with the same distant amusement - she reminds you of one of those magazine-cover models with their smoky eyes and parted lips.

Yet hers was a darkflame stare, the rouge of her lips like blood from torn-throat prey.

"I got this," you reassure yourself when the bell is struck, tapping your gloves together and advancing upon her with newfound confidence that turns out to be hollow as a clamshell. Like a hornet in a hurricane she tosses you upon the winds of her battle-acumen, bending around right-cross and left-hook like strikes thrown against a waterfall. It lasts longer than you expected, and as she taps you out with a rear chokehold that throws constellations of spots before your eyes, it occurs to you...this is the first time you've actually ever touched her.

Your mind concocts sweetness from the violence.

Her arm tightens vice-like around your throat...you enjoy the pale smoothness of her soft skin, scattered with freckles.

Her sweat stings the cut she opened on your cheek...you taste it on your lips, tangy and brackish, heavy with her pheromones.

Her breath is hot against your ear...the hardness of her teeth graces your earlobe, biting and giving a soft tug.

Somehow that feels less like a sweet love-bite and more like she was tasting you...like she wanted to take a chunk out of you, to savor the chewy cartilage and lap at the bloody wound; you'd always had a mind for the macabre. Here in the crushing embrace of her svelte arms, you discover a strange biological imperative, one that drives you to give yourself to her. You don't just desire her, you desire

of

her. You desire:

To see her dark eyes hood with pleasure at your touch

To hear her smoky, accented voice whisper her gratification

To never let your head leave the soft, light curve of her bust

Nonetheless you tap out against the mat, and the ref comes in to separate you...but not before she gently kisses your temple. "

Meet me in the shower later. Last one on the right,

" she exhales, a ribbon of silken words you can barely hear; your senses are enraptured in her, caught in her stormwind and struck by her lightning like Ben Franklin's iron key. A thrill runs down the kitestring of your spine, grounding itself with a throb of desire in your groin.

You're pulled apart by an overenthusiastic meat-wall of a referee, his sweaty mitts leaving prints on the both of you as he raises her hand to the ceiling to declare her victorious. It's embarrassing to get beaten by a woman - you can't help the way you were socialized under your parents' traditionalist Hindu banner - but that blow to your masculine sensibilities is cushioned by the understanding that she is more than what she seems. Your attention is hooked on her, and she makes no secret of staring at you from across the ring while the other matches go down. The spotlight brightness of your need limns her deceptively delicate body, and her teeth gleam stunningly white; are her canines a bit longer and sharper than they should be? Is that a hint of animal-amber in the middle of her whiskey-rich irises?

As is custom, you wait around with the rest of the club membership and trade congratulations and challenges like glass baubles - you don't see

her

, but the weight of her presence pulls upon you like gravity. The others insist you come out with them to the pub, but you fend them off by explaining that you're going to stay here and train for a bit.

They get it, they let it be after some time; all of them understand your distaste for defeat...but that isn't on your mind right now.

The locker room is a painstakingly well-kept affair. Kiebler - the ref who happened to own this space - has a mother with something approaching a mania for cleanliness, and you often saw her steadfastly bleaching the life out of any microbes clinging to the walls. Consequently the tile floor is sparkling clean. It's quiet in here, but for the sound of rushing water in one shower. Last one on the right. Wearing little more than a towel around your waist, the hardness of your anticipation presses against the fabric like the haft of a spear.

You don't wish to look overeager but no amount of self-talk or distracting thoughts can banish your arousal so you simply carry it, bobbing between your thighs. You pass down the hall of showers, as if expecting an ambush that doesn't come and stop before the sliding screen of frosted glass, coquettishly revealing her silhouette.

Her arms are raised, and by the scent of shampoo you assume she's washing her chocolate-brown hair. You've always found her wavy locks incredibly attractive...the teacher with whom you co-taught Sophomore English had posed the question: 'who is the most beautiful person you've ever seen?' He did this in the knowledge that despite your outwardly gruff demeanor, you were a man of plentiful verbiage, and so you'd spent time talking about the way her hair shines in dark or light.

You hadn't, of course, mentioned the way her slender neck tempts your lips, or the space of her collarbones, or her firm breasts. Petite and rounded, you could make out the hardened points of her nipples behind the frosted glass...your mind, unleashed by your desire, simulates the sensation of them hardening against your tongue.

You've described her, in that journal of your amateurish attempts at poetry, as a Venus-figure with her wonderfully flared hips - exciting in the womanly fertility they represent, powerful in the way they guide her graceful kicks. Aware of your presence, she turns toward you.

You are mesmerized by the way she drags her palms down her shoulders, cupping her breasts invitingly...and...you watch as her right hand crawls down the flat pane of her belly, down between her thighs. Opening them temptingly, you watch her fingers move in lazy circles between her legs.

Hesitation dies with a whimper.

What happens next comes from the shimmering depths of phantasm, as if Dream itself had slithered its way into the steamy shower stall. You can barely see her in the twilight darkness of the locker room...the towel falls away from your waist, baring you to her as you step into the warm mists.

"You're mine," she whispers, lifting her hand from between her thighs and pressing it to your lips. The perfume of her arousal spreads across your senses; the weight of her Dominance falls upon your shoulders as the Lunacy rises in your heart before her animal magnetism -

- she's pressing you against the shower wall, stroking her fingers across the smoothness of your cheek, her forehead flush with yours. She's pinning you like a bluebottle to a corkboard in her stare -

- her lips burn against yours in a magmatic kiss. Your hands crawl as if possessed of their own mind over her body, and she presses her slippery form against you. Slowly your grasp makes its way down to the lush curve of her ass, and her long leg slithers like a cobra around yours as you guide her against your hips. Her teeth prick painfully / wonderfully into your bottom lip, drawing blood like nectar from a flower that she licks away. "I want to show you something," she whispers against the edge of your jaw -

- her hips move in lazy circles against your groin, marking you with her scent and painting her insignia upon you...she imprints herself upon your flesh with her nails sliding down your muscled flanks, leaving lines in your almond-dark flesh. The shower stall seems to stretch and warp around her into a voluminous, mist-ridden space where your attempts to quiet the plaintive sounds in your throat die. She presses your hands harder against the firmness of her posterior, angling the bulbous head of your cut manhood underneath the pearl of her pleasure. Her hooded eyes widen with pleasure as she slicks her juices across your haft -

- her arousal crawls, honey-sweet and viscous, down the curve of your girth. Where you're used to being the alpha in bed, the way your mystery-fighter swallows you into her warm sex leaves you hypnotized...like a hare caught in the gaze of a hawk. She makes little secret of enjoying you, purring her lewdness against your jugular vein as the textured velvet of her vaginal walls thrum and squeeze around your manhood. You writhe against her in slow motion, strange colors dancing at the edge of your vision as she smiles at you but it's the smile of a falcon dive-bombing a mouse. "Give it to me, handsome," she commands, dismounting from your manhood slowly; you almost lose your composure when her vagina tightens around the base of your cockhead, sliding free with a wet pop -

- the tile is hard beneath your knees in this vast shower-cavern, motes of firefly-bright luminescence wafting lazily at the edge of your vision. You don't care though, your every intention and thought is focused on thrusting her full with your masculinity, because it's what she desires from you. She lifts her hips to meet you, the lewd meeting of flesh echoing in this dreamlike space. Hot water falls all around you, dripping down your back, swirling around her carven shoulders as she grips your ass hard and pulls you into her. Her tongue dances along her ~~fangs~~ teeth with ecstasy, eyes flashing ~~bestial~~ lovely and honey bright as you rub the pearl of her release with two fingers, dragging another climax from her. "Fffuck...you're good...I knew you'd be good, Arjuna, you're -perfect-." Perfect...? It's like a signal, an invitation -

- her low, throaty groan of pleasure comes as she wraps her legs around your hips; your eyes squeeze shut, your teeth clench as the most powerful orgasm you can recall rolls like a thunderhead from the base of your cock. You try to pull out but she keeps you firmly inside, wordless insistence as your seed pumps inside of her; it's as if she's sucking you dry -

...but the dream slips away in that strange moment of post-orgasmic clarity, when you gaze into her inhuman eyes and realize you're not only in a cage with the proverbial lion, you've been fucking her...and she's still hungry. She hasn't released you from the seed-spattered warmth of her sex. The shower is still running, spraying hot water down your back and dripping over her face; there's a subtly menacing cast to her delicate, high-cheekboned visage.

"Arjuna..." she growls your name like a new delicacy she's discovered, as if your soul was liqueur to pour across her tongue. "You're going to please me for a long time...and this is what I'm going to give you in exchange."

"Wait - " you begin and it's utterly futile as she leans forward as if to kiss your neck and instead

she digs her fangs into your jugular vein

-

- all around you the world awakens, souls and minds hidden from your view coming into focus as if your vision was simply ill-calibrated to see the terrible truth. Dozens of pairs of mismatched eyes stare with all the colors of the netherworld through the tree-branches; a jagged mouth cracks open in the earth and croons its hunger, assuring you that one day you would rest in its jaws and nourish it with your blood -

- the crescent moon is a dual-bladed sickle that guts the sky, ripping it open to reveal star-shot blood that drips down into the Gulf of Mexico. It's still daytime; the silver knife slides through the sun's midsection and you hear it scream as its nuclear-plasma entrails are hooked, tugged out of the heavens to sink into the sea and leave the moon as the sole ruler of the sky -

- you watch as your hands grow into massive paws, claws splitting through your fingertips and glowing with silver bands of lunar puissance. Words of power crackle forth from your throat, leaving your jaw in a stream of reality-shaking runes that draw the Other World's power into this one; a godlike being hears your call, and unable to resist, its presence pours into realm to manifest before you -

- and you moan like a beast as you slowly pull forth from her magma-warmth, a final rope of your cum shooting from your helm across her mons, sticky in the dark thatch of her pubic hair. She leers up at you darkly, your blood staining her teeth as she lewdly slides her fingers into the mess you made with her. "I hope you're ready for a second go...I sure am." She pulls you close and kisses your lips. You taste your blood, and she guides your over-sensitive, still hard cock back inside of her amidst the steam, the shower water, and her satisfied song...