There’s no allure in the painted ones. They wrap themselves in leather and fishnet, plaster their faces with rouge to mask fear or arrogance or desperation, whatever flicker of emotion might reveal them for the plain mortals they are. They hide their true selves behind false faces, beautiful and flawless but ultimately pitiful lies. Why desire those so weak they must affect elaborate costume to lure you in? I feel nothing for these preening, effeminate whores who crave attention and worship. They only wish to play the game for a night and emerge unscathed to greet the morning and reapply their pretty masks. There’s no risk with them, no threat. They wouldn’t know what to do with someone like me.


It’s the ones who linger in the shadows who stir my restless longing. These ones burn with such heat that I’m drawn like a moth eager to court its death in ecstatic flame. They have no need for costumed deception. They feel no shame in the chase nor guilt in the conquest. The aura of danger makes me shiver with anticipation; the heady musk of lust makes my mouth water. This is no game or posturing dance. This is about flesh and blood, submission and domination. This is a hunt, I the trembling prey paralyzed by its killer’s mesmerizing gaze. And like some helpless deer which knows on instinct its doom approaches and the hunt is at an end, I bare my throat to the wolf, welcome his teeth with terror and relief. There may be a morning to come but before the dawn I will be devoured, my body an offering to sate the beast’s hunger, and will wake stripped as carrion.


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