This Town: Origins
Cum. Confess. Repeat; Lucifer's Girl.
THE DREAM and GRIEF:
There was a longing in his face, like a fleeting thought that haunted me. He was quiet, intense -- a flicker of something unfinished. My brother had been dead for years, but the dreams kept coming. He'd appear at the end of my bed, older than he ever lived to be. A man now. Broad. Silent. Impossibly still. The way he gazed at me, like he had something to say but never spoke.
His clothes hung off him like they didn't belong; his eyes were sunken and dark, but I felt no fear. One detail never changed -- without fail, he was hard.
I wore dresses to bed. Teddies. Slips. Silk and smooth. After a few visits, I stopped wearing underwear. My thighs would part when he came to me -- just a little. Just enough.
Until one night, everything changed.
I went to bed completely naked -- a gift, wrapped in nothing but my own sensual skin.
He didn't return.
***
Weirdly, I started visiting my brother's headstone at night -- just me, a dress, and the weight of everything I couldn't say out loud. The cemetery stretched wide and silent, trees leaning like they were listening. I'd bring two empty long-neck beer bottles -- one for my pussy, one for my asshole -- and a pocket vibrator that buzzed mean against my clit. I'd ride his stone like it could bring him back -- like if I came hard enough, loud enough, deep enough, the crack between this world and wherever he went might split open. It wasn't just lust. It was grief twisted into heat -- guilt, love, sickness. I wanted him to touch me. So I touched myself like he would have.
My parents named me Mary, like the mother of God -- like that was supposed to mean something. Like I was meant to be soft, sweet, untouched. But I was never that girl.
I was eighteen, and I knew exactly what I was doing. My hair hit just above my shoulders, soft and light. My tits were high and perky -- attention-getters without even trying. I liked wearing dresses with nothing underneath, especially on Sundays, when the sun was lazy and the breeze was bold. I'd step outside like that, barefoot, knowing damn well the fabric would cling to my curves and my nipples would show through. It wasn't about being a tease -- it was about owning the moment, letting the world look if it dared.
Night was when I felt most alive -- when I was finally alone with nothing but my thoughts. When the world quieted, and I could shake off the day and open myself to everything I craved: life, dreams, fantasy... and lust.
My nightwear lay strewn around the room. I kept sleeping naked -- even during my bleeding days, when I was bitter and cramping. Let it run. Let it smear. I loved the red soaking into white sheets. The mess turned me on.
More than that, it called to the darkness -- the kind that once lived inside me, the kind that left me hollow. I was a beacon now, bleeding and open, weeping with the night.
The full moon came in through my open curtains like blue light washing over an ocean of darkness. It lit my bed like a stage light, illuminating me and my beautiful mess. The wind had picked up, but the trees casting shadows didn't reach in here anymore. This night, something felt wrong. The air didn't move. Other shadows held still, like they were watching. I lay beneath damp, bloodied sheets, skin tense, breath shallow -- waiting for something I couldn't name.
THE DESCENT:
The sensation hit like a body breaking on jagged rocks. Like bones snapping but... not with a crack. Not sound at all. Just pressure.
The air thickened like honey, clinging to my skin and weighing down each breath until it felt like drowning in slow motion. The walls seemed to lean inward, subtly at first, then more insistently, as if the room itself had grown hungry for me. My pulse fluttered in my throat, frantic and shallow, while a shadow spilled across the ceiling -- not cast by anything I could see, and moving with a deliberate slowness that defied nature. It glided like oil across water, too smooth, too silent, too perfectly wrong to be anything real, and yet there it was -- stretching, watching, as though it knew I could feel it.
When I turned my head, there he was. But it wasn't him; not Nathaniel. Not my brother. The body was perfect -- tall, lean, sculpted like he'd been carved with hunger. But the face was something else entirely. Not anyone I knew. Just... beauty. Raw and cruel.
His eyes were silver, not merely reflective but luminous, glowing softly as if they remembered stars older than this earth -- ancient, watchful things that had seen worlds rise and fall. There was no judgment in them, only a quiet knowing that made my breath catch and my thoughts scatter like leaves in wind. His lips parted slightly, as if forming the shape of words he'd already decided not to say. But he didn't speak. He didn't need to. Something deeper passed between us -- a pulse in the air, a shift in gravity -- and I understood him without a single sound.
His massive dick hung low between his legs, like a fucking stallion's cock, thick and long, heavy. I could see the weight in his girth. I couldn't move. Not out of fear -- but because I didn't want to disturb him. My body remembered something before my mind caught up. As if I knew who he was. I watched as he stepped closer, silent, graceful, dripping with power, gliding over hard wood as if he were ethereal. He knelt beside the bed and touched my ankle. Cold at first. Then fire.
Like a match catching flame, I heard it -- not out loud, not in my ears, but scraped into the inside of my skull.
I turned toward the ceiling.
And there -- carved into my mind...
L U C I F E R.
The name glowed red like a dull ember. When I whispered it beneath my breath, looking into those ancient eyes, his mouth opened wide. A golden fire, lit from deep in his throat, rose over his long, forked tongue, illuminating me as his jaw dropped impossibly to his collarbones.
A guttural tone rumbled from deep inside him, followed by an electronic jitter--then, unmistakably, my brother's voice...
With his mouth still wide, unwavering, it said, "Dolly?" Then a low growl, "Dolly."
We used to have a dog named Dolly. Nathaniel's best friend. They died in the same accident and were cremated together.
Fear rose within me like Hell itself was fanning the flames, licking up my spine and curling around my ribs with searing fingers. It wasn't sudden -- it bloomed slow and deliberate, like something ancient waking beneath my skin. My mind raced, grasping at reason, but none of this felt like coincidence. Was this a warning? An omen scraped from the underbelly of the world? Or a threat -- deliberate and personal -- sent by something that already knew my name? The air crackled with the weight of meaning, thick with the kind of silence that comes just before something breaks.
Lucifer's hand clenched my calf, then ran slowly up my leg to my thigh. He gripped me with such force that I winced at the pain. I watched his cock stiffen, tighten, and rise between his muscular legs, the swollen tip coming full salute over his chiseled abs. His fingers dipped between my thighs and pushed toward the menstrual blood caking my lips below.
His long, thick tongue slid between my pussy lips, not just licking--but cleaning me, like a mother cat tending to her cub. But this wasn't gentle. It was loaded with tension, hunger, and a dark, coiled lust. For the first time in months, I felt intimately cared for. Not just touched--explored. Worshiped. Every inch of me taken in as if I was something unholy. My asshole clenched when his tongue found it, dragging wet heat over it in slow, deliberate strokes. And when his silver eyes locked onto mine, I knew what was coming. That forked tongue thrust forward, splitting me apart, prying my slick folds open until it found the soft, pulsing entrance he was looking for. Then he pushed--deep--filling my pussy with thick, impossible heat.
