He sits down at his unfamiliar desk. His heart skipping at an eerily calm beat. He knows not what to say, so he prays for strength to guide him and skill to find him. The same prayer he's made at his desk for the last 11 years. The same desk that knows far too well and yet now in this moment, his familiarity is gone. Replaced with fear.
A woman stands near as she caresses his ear and softly whispers with the slither of her tongue, "tell me a story."
Her red tipped nails roll across her caramel skin and fiery red hair curling down her neck. Her eyes piercing through her deep hazel stare.
He grips his pen tightly, ravishing the pages he once held tenderly. Tearing through the lines with vibrant images of a meeting in his mind. The woman now standing bare as he stares in awe of her painted lines tainted with scars only seen through the stories she stars.
Marred by her glory, he strikes her with his kiss as he's trapped in her furious claws. She clamps down on his lip with the twist of her tongue pulling them together as one.
Her body overheating, steam gleaming, shining under the ink of his tongue. With each stroke she writes of creation, a love in the making, born from within the mind of this man.
Sitting.
Alone at his desk.
Staring with his last breath.
His last masterpiece signed,
"A Succubus Death"
- Jamal Henderson