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Food for Thought

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Teeth. Rows and rows of sharp, pointy teeth piercing her neck then, taking root in the thrumming jugular vein in her neck. It burns, it burns so fucking bad that she’s surprised the intense pain hasn’t taken it’s inevitable toll on her yet, although she questions if perhaps her mind is trying to separate itself from her body. Somehow, she’s still aware of her surroundings, although everything appears hazy. Around her, everything is spinning, spinning, spinning as if she has just gotten off a fast whirling carousel after eating one too many cotton candies.

Her head swims, not able to rationalize a thought that makes sense, or any thoughts at all. The blinding pain is so extreme, resembling the feeling of a thousand needles stabbed into her skin without a care or a goal, agonizingly slow and painfully breaking the skin apart to expose little streams of warm blood that puddle together at her feet.

 She wants to let out a noise, any noise. Her mind screams at her to call for help, be smart, use the vocal cords mother nature blessed her with. Instead, all that leaves her now iron tasting, blood filled mouth is the last soft, dying gurgle of a defeated prey.

 Her body is covered in a soft film of sweat when she wakes, barely registering her unaware, still very much asleep husband that lies next to her. Her heart races, adrenaline coursing through her on edge body as she attempts at steadying her ragged, uneven breath. The clean, white sheets are bundled up at the foot of the  bed, odds-on kicked off by her at the pinnacle of her nightmare. A shaky sigh leaves her lips as she runs her clammy hand through the sweat soaked strands of her hair.

 The same reoccurring nightmare has been terrorizing her for the past 7 days, getting worse and worse, feeling more realistic each time it enters her mind. The bags under her eyes now have a purple hue to them due to the lack of sleep she has been getting. Truth of the matter is, she has been too frightened of going to sleep at night, doing as much as avoiding it entirely. There was enough housework to keep her busy, and that was even after she had been done going through about every single file she could probably prepare for upcoming work meetings.

Her husband, Michael, had laughed at her silly avoidance behavior, telling her that steering clear of such a silly thing as a simple nightmare would only make it worse. And so, with Michael’s scornful words ringing in her ears, she decided to give sleep one more chance. A decision which she deeply regretted by now.

 Beside her, the man in question is still peacefully asleep, unaware of the horrors playing through his wife’s mind. Wobbly legs swing over the side of their shared bed, eyeballing additional crescent, nail shaped imprints on her legs in the soft shine of the moonlight invitingly streaming through the opened window. Another sigh falls of her parched lips, this time more in annoyance than in an attempt at calming herself down. She has the habit of attempting to fight off the monster who’s teeth claim her neck nightly, except, in the real world, no one is there, which only results in her accidentally marking up her own skin while asleep. Still, it is freaky how many scratches are carved into her skin by now. It’s hard to believe she has done them all in the span of just a week. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think…

 But now she is just scaring herself. Monsters don’t exist and she wasn’t a child any longer, she had long passed the age of believing in anything supernatural or evil.

 Slowly, her uncovered feet connect with the cold linoleum tiles, carefully tiptoeing over to the bathroom Michael and her shared. Before locking the fake silver handled door, she flicks the light switch on and scans the bathroom in its entirety, something she hasn’t done since she was a teenager. she carried her childhood fears with her for quite a while longer than just her childhood, but eventually, she had grown out of them. Something that seems irrelevant to the reoccurring nightmare.

 Come on, she tells herself as she sits down on the toilet seat with shaky hands, how old are you again? Old enough to be married. Old enough to have a degree and a job. Old enough for her mother to start asking for grandchildren. Way too old to be scared over puerile, meaningless nightmares.

 Once the toilet is flushed, and with them, hopefully her fears – something her mother had taught her a long time ago; after a bad dream, you flush the toilet and down the drain goes the nightmare – her tired eyes find their reflection in the bathroom mirror. She washes her hands, slow but thorough, the water washing away the remnants of foolish dread.

 Maybe she should paint the town red again, it suddenly hits her. The thought of going out was something that hadn’t occurred to her in quite a while, but maybe a sloppy, rough fuck from a complete stranger in an unfamiliar setting would be exactly what it would take to get her mind off of things.


And so, at quarter to one in the middle of the night, a young woman in a skin tight dress tiptoes out of the half empty apartment, her husband left soundlessly asleep, blissfully unaware of his wife’s infidelity. The door softly falls in the lock behind her and the warmth of the lingering summer air hits her face in a comforting way, as if to tell her ‘don’t worry. He won’t find out. He’s never found out before.’

 The empty asphalt is silent under the roaring Audi, and her ringless finger – she’s not stupid enough to wear her wedding ring on a night like this – flicks through the similar sounding radio stations, silently pondering if it was worth going to The Sitting Duck, a bar on the outskirts of Derry. Derry was a small town, mostly consisting out of elderly. Anyone with a future had left the dying excuse of a town long ago.

In her mind, in theory, she knew she should feel guilty about cheating on the man whom she pledged faithfulness to in front of the alter, but she could not muster up the strength to actually be guilt ridden. She loves Michael, she does. But a girl has needs, and love won’t fill up those lust crazed, empty holes.




When she spots him – him and the balding 60 year old man a few seats away from him, who’s undressing eyes roam over her like a starving animal observing it’s next meal – she can tell he’s not from Derry. No one born and raised in Derry dresses or smells that good. She walks past the fine-looking and deliciously scented man (cinnamon? Pumpkin? Some strong earthy undertone) and sits down across from him, where she observes the gangly man like a scientist examines bacteria under a microscope before deciding if she wants to close in on the kill.

 He is a man of importance, it radiates off of him effortlessly like a heatwave in the middle of June. His suit clad shoulders are broad, and his legs are clunkily folded under the bar, and oh, good God, she realizes, he must be taller than any man she has ever had before. His features imply that he’s a young man, older than the woman sniffing him out like a famished dog, but not by more than a handful of years. In his white gloved hand is what seem like a bloody Mary. Typical.

His hair is dark and slightly messy – not that she minds; if she was allowed to have her way with him, his messy hair would be the last thing either of them had to worry about – and his eyes-


 And his electric eyes have found hers, amusement glistering on the surface. A god awful embarrassment red sneaks up her heated cheeks, and she’s sure she looks like a creep, or a stalker, or maybe both; a creepy stalker, but no. He is actually tapping the seat next to him in an inviting fashion, cocks his head to the side as if to dare her to come over. She dares.

 “Hi,” she sheepishly introduces herself to the hypnotizing being in front of her. A lazy smile graces his lips as he shakes her stretched out, ringless hand with his gloved one.

 “Hello,” his voice is unsurprisingly husky, the gravel of that singly greeting sending a pleasant shiver down her spine. “I couldn’t help but notice you looking thirsty from over there, all by yourself.”

 Before she can even begin to mutter her apology, sorry-I-am-a-complete-idiot or maybe even a refuting huh-who-me-no-way!, he raises her glass to her, then winks. The fucker winks.

 “You know, you can just order them at the bar,” he teases her, nudges her with his elbow like they’ve been friends for years.

 “Gee, thanks. I’m not allowed out of the basement much. Not used to this whole leaving the house thing,” she jokes, and he throws his head back laughing like a little kid, and butterflies flutter through her entire being without as much as a warning. Jesus, this man was really God damn fine.

 He grins, introduces himself as Bob Gray, and orders her a bloody Mary with extra lime, the assumption she made about his own pick-me-up turning out to be accurate.

 “So, what do you do?” she curiously inquires, making a case of brushing her thigh past his knee while settling down on the bar stool right next to the lanky man.


 “For work. Or are those gloves a fashion statement?”

 “What gloves?” She stares at his uncovered hands, no ring, nimble but long fingers wrapped loosely around his glass and heat creeps up her cheeks for the second time that night. She could’ve sworn he was wearing gloves earlier. Her eyes dart from his hands back up to this bright blue eyes and plump lips, curved up into a grin, all teeth and genuinity.

 “You’re a bit of an odd one, aren’t you?” she’s starting to feel an awful lot like having a fever dream, the sense of slipping between being asleep and wakefulness swimming through her mind. Could it be the lack of sleep from the previous nights? It had to be, or perhaps a trick of the light. Before the disorienting bewilderment consumes her, said ungloved fingers link with her bare arm to catch her attention, careful and soft, as if not to startle her.

 “Are you alright?” God, and he’s nice. He’s nice and he is funny and he looks even better than all her favorite dirty daydreams, and she wants the nightmares gone so bad and she wants more of his touch, more of him, so fucking bad.

 “Yes. Yes, more than fine, actually.”


Michael doesn’t pop up in her mind like he usually does when she accompanies an attractive stranger home, not this time. She could be sorry, but it seems hypocritical. There was no way in hell she was letting the man sitting next to her go, not with the way his lingering touches, against her knee, soft on her arm, pressing on her shoulders, still burn on her skin like winter fire. Just as she had suspected, the current stranger does not live in the hopeless excuse for a town, but he does stay at the Derry townhouse. He takes her there, wastes no time on niceties, just how she likes it. It’s like he can read her every thought, sense the desperation for relief radiating off of her.

 Sweet, plump lips bridge the distance the second she gets her coat off, hungry, desperate, searching. Biting.

 “F-fuck,” she breathes against him, warm blood dripping down her bottom lip like honied tea spilling over the edge of a hot mug.

 “I’m sorry,” the red liquid coat his apologizing lips now, curled up in a Cheshire cat grin. His tongue unapologetically darts out from in between his parted lips, long and pink, licking away her spilled blood, first off of his own lips and then of hers, like she’s nothing more than a tasty treat. Fuck. She hit the fucking kink lottery.

 “You’re not,” she ascertains playfully, hands brazenly and without a warning shoving the lanky man that easily towers over her down on the musty couch in the deprecated room of the townhouse. He lets her, she’s awfully aware of how he lets her small frame overpower his much bigger one. In a tangle of limbs, the man of all her dirty daydreams yet to come yanks her down with him, lips chasing each other as a unexpectedly soft chuckle escapes from her throat.

 “You’re right, little one,” his breath is hot on her neck, and his hand tugs on her hair with a pleasant sting to it. His teeth graze the undisturbed skin hungrily, rows and rows of sharp, pointy teeth piercing her neck and then his tongue leaves a hot, long stripe down the length of her throat. “I’m not so sorry. I’m not sorry at all.”

 The tight but steady grip his big hands hold on her hips renders her dizzy with white hot, blazing want for the stranger below her. A laugh, one similar to the one he had let out earlier on the evening, but now somehow more cruel, escapes from his throat as she wiggles under his iron grip, desperate for more physical contact.

 “Tell me what you want, little one. Maybe I will decide to be kind enough to give it to you,” the pet name he has for her flush her cheek a bright red and send an unapologetic rush down her legs,

 “I want you,” she whimpers meagerly, entrapped by the delicious dig of his warm digits in her sure-to-be-bruised-by-tomorrow skin, and he cocks up one uninterested eyebrow at her sweaty face.

 “Not good enough.”

“I want…. I want you inside of me,” and she’s convinced that did the trick when his fingers finally move, away from her hips and lower, lower, lower… The hem of her dress comes apart under his probing fingers, a soft, anticipating groan escapes her. His fingers are so close to where she needs them most, the warmth of him radiating brightly against the soft flesh of her thighs, and then… And then he stops.

 He snorts, displeased yet entertained by the eagerness of her trashing around in his grip, the needy whine falling off her lips.

 “Your cock inside of me, I want your cock inside of me, please!” she begs, her dress is ripped to pieces now, something that would cost any other stranger a mean fucking slap across the face, but not him. Not Bob fucking Gray with his magic hands and silver tongue.

 The old couch creeks underneath the shifting weight of the tangled together mess of limbs as he flips her naked body over sloppily like a rag doll, rough and careless and pressed along the length of her body. The suit on her one night only lover crinkles as he ruts his hips against her completely naked form messily, his hand teasingly on her clit, insufferably slow, soft circles. His cock is hard and infuriatingly out of reach, the few layers of clothing extracting a needy groan from her.

 “Such a dirty, dirty girl,” he grins in her hair as he pulls his hips away from hers, the contrast of the delicious sound of the teeth of his zipper being undone and the emptiness against her behind earning him an eager buck of her soft hips.

 For just a fleeting moment, a questioning when the hell did he take my panties off runs through her mind, but the thought is gone as fast as it showed up when he ruthlessly teases her already dripping cunt with the head of his cock, so barely there and wet, and fuck, since when was she such a pleading mess? A chuckle leaves his lips when she eagerly bucks her hips back again, begging and writhing against the tall stranger for more.

 “I want your cock inside of me, who?” He’s cruel, he’s awfully and unreasonably cruel and she feels like tears could stream down her cheeks from pure, undenied pleasure that she knows he can give her.

 “B-Bob, please,” she gasps, the tip of his leaking cock on her throbbing clit now, hot and heavy and- and then it’s gone again. A tsk in both her ears so vivid it feels like the noise is coming from inside her skull overpowers her own pleading whine for some contact, any at all.

 “Sir?” it’s a strangled question coming from her throat that provides her nothing but a correcting squeeze, first her ass, then her nipple when she stays quiet underneath him.

 “Come on, little one. You know what I want. You’ve said it before,” he hotly hisses down her neck, teeth sinking in the soft skin of her shoulder as a warning, and then it hits her. She does not stop to wonder how he knows about her past experiences, too drunken on the unadulterated bliss of him.

 “Daddy, daddy, daddy, please!”

 “Good girl. Good, impatient, little girl,” he giggles, he fucking giggles openmouthed against her cheek like he owns her as he sheaths his full length into her cunt all at once, hot, hard and filling.

 Stars rest on the field of her vision when he doesn’t even fucking bother to let her adjust to the alien full feeling of him, hitting every single spot so God damn ass kickingly perfect that it takes her a full minute to realize that moaning noise is coming from her. As far as she’s able to rationalize any different thought than oh God, oh God, oh fuck, yes she ceases her whimpering.

 “Don’t hold back those tasty moans now,” he growls, almost sounding inhuman, blended with the rhythmical thrust of his hips, knocking the breath out of her. His cock hits spots she wasn’t aware of having, like he shaped his cock to fit her dripping cunt like a perfect match.

 “Tell me I’m the best you’ve ever had in your miserable short little life time. Better than your disappointingly, small-dicked husband,” the pretty stranger has a way of making every word that leaves his mouth sound filthy. He has her draped uselessly over the couch as he pounds into her like there’s no tomorrow, it’s hard to get anything else but mind-dulling moans out.

 “Tell me,” he hisses, pulling her body flush against his, his big hand wrapped dangerously tight around her throat.

 “Y-you have the best cock I’ve ever felt in my miserable short little life time,” she chokes out with heated cheeks of embarrassment, knowing the man currently filling her up won’t be satisfied with any less. “Better than anyone else’s.”

 He chuckles, letting go off her throat not a moment too soon, black patches in her vision threatening to take over, the rhythmic slap of his flesh against her roaring around in her ears.

 “I’m going to c-cum,” she gasps, the satisfying stretch of his cock too much with the way his nimble fingers have found their way down from her throat to her clit.

 “Oh no, you're not. Not until daddy says you can.”

 She clenches dangerously tight around his cock, earning a harsh slap against her aching pussy, leaving her gasping for air.

 “I don’t recall giving you permission to cum yet, my eager little cum slut,” he hisses against the base of her skull, tugging on her hair painfully brutal. The tone in his voice is ruthless and threatening, but his cock twitches inside her like it’s living its own life, and the mere thought of his warm cum dripping out of her has her moaning, and she clenches around his girth again, prepared to deal with whatever consequences he sees fit to punish her with.

 The intake of his breath is sharp when his seed spills, hot and thick, triggering her own orgasm. The tremble in legs would’ve been sure to have her fall to her knees if it wasn’t for the old couch underneath her, supporting her weight. Stars appear behind her closed lids, hoping, praying to whatever deity that the overpowering, blissful surge between her legs never ends, that perfect Robert Gray and his perfect cock never leave from the snug space between her trembling legs.


 They stay like that for a while, minutes, hours, after they come, she couldn’t tell you even if you held a gun to her head. The final peaceful moments before the storm. Then, he pulls out of her, cock gone soft and his seed dripping down her legs like it belongs there. She bites her lip, sad to let him go. He pats her head, as if to tell her good job and she finally switches positions, her muscles thanking her.

 The couch lets out a protesting creek when she shifts her weight from her bruised knees to her sore ass, the ripped up dress she wore earlier that night catching her eye.

 “You fucked up my dress, you know.”

 “I want to eat you,” he ignores her remark with a low growl, and she laughs, closing her eyes as she revels in the afterglow of sex and uncramping her muscles. It’s like a second orgasm all over again.

 “As much as I’d love that, I have to get back to my husband,” when he stays silent, she turns to look at the handsome man in front of her, only to see his blue eyes flicker to an unsettling shade of yellow and drool dribble down his chin. It’s unsettling, triggering goosebumps down her entire body.

 “I really should get going,” she repeats, blinking twice, praying that what she’s seeing in front of her is an illusion, a trick of the light, the unenviable costs of her lack of sleep.

 It’s none of those things. It’s not an illusion, nor a trick of the light, nor consequences of insomnia. In front of her now, where handsome Bob Gray stood mere seconds ago, now stands a terrifying 7 feet tall clown. His hair is a fiery red and his body is clad in a Victorian style clown costume. She has never really been scared of clowns before, but then again, the clowns she did meet didn’t shapeshift from handsome men into clown creatures in front of her, nor does the clown face seem etched into their skin.

 “Y-you’re not real. You can’t be real,” He — no, it, because the being in front her could not be human in any way, shape or form — uncovers its teeth in a sickening twist that could almost pass as a smile, teeth that suddenly look all too familiar to her, she now realizes with a start.

 “I-I’m not real?” It mocks the small, now trembling woman on the musty townhouse couch in front of the large being. “My cock was real enough for you, was it not?”

 “You… If I knew what you were, I would’ve never…” She needs to get away, or she can guess how this is going to end. How her life is going to end. Oh, God. She fucked this. It. Whatever the fuck it was.

 “Please, daddy,” it ridicules her voice, and fuck, it sounds eerily similar to her own. “You have the best cock I’ve ever felt in my miserable short little life time.”

 It watches as the doomed human now uselessly claws her nails at the door, naked and afraid. A laugh bubbles in its throat.

 “Don’t go hurting my feelings now, little human,” the clown’s voice is so different from Bob’s, higher pitched and laced with insanity and sadism. “You would be so lucky to have me in this form.”

 “F-fuck you!” she attempts to retaliate before realizing that she should probably focus on getting the fuck out of here, away from the clown in every sense of the word. Her nails desperately dig at the wooden door that challengingly stands in front of her, the doorknob that she knows was there earlier now gone.

 “Oh, but I did, little one, and you thoroughly enjoyed it,” it says in a singsong-y purr, higher now than she has ever heard it, and the pet name it made up for her now sounds more like a fucking threat than anything else. “Look at me.”

 Turning around to face the shapeshifter may be the hardest thing she has ever had to do, but the monster waits for her as if it has all the time in the world, - it probably does, she realizes - a demonic laugh ringing through her head, sharp and deafening. Her naked body trembles as she finally turns, tears ready to spill over her sweaty cheeks, faced with eight beady little eyes and equally as many legs, it’s gigantic mouth curled up in a sickening smile.

 She screams. She screams like she’s never screamed in her life before, a bad horror movie fucking scream that cracks, insanity closing in on her mind before the monster does.

 “Tasty, tasty, beautiful fear,” it roars through her skull, and it’s so close she can almost taste it’s foul breath on her face, stinking of blood and shit and piss and death. The fear is paralyzing, there is nothing more she can do but sit and watch as the horrifying being, enormous and disgusting, heaves itself towards her trembling frame, with only one purpose. To kill. Her screaming as ceased now, all that’s left is a pile of hopelessness filled to the brim with fear, as if it’s been the only emotion she has ever felt before. Hot tears stream down her pretty face, but it awakens no mercy in the beast’s eight yellow eyes, only hunger and a sick sense of sadistic joy.

 It’s humongous jaw then snaps open, glistering teeth welcoming her field of vision with a sickening cackle that can only come from the disturbed soul of the entity.

 Teeth. Rows and rows of sharp, pointy teeth piercing her neck then, taking root in the thrumming jugular vein in her neck. It burns, it burns so fucking bad that she’s surprised the intense pain hasn’t taken it’s inevitable toll on her yet, although she questions if perhaps her mind is trying to separate itself from her body. Somehow, she’s still aware of her surroundings, although everything appears hazy. Around her, everything is spinning, spinning, spinning as if she has just gotten off a fast whirling carousel after eating one too many cotton candies.

Her head swims, not able to rationalize a thought that makes sense, or any thoughts at all. The blinding pain is so extreme, resembling the feeling of a thousand needles stabbed into her skin without a care or a goal, agonizingly slow and painfully breaking the skin apart to expose little streams of warm blood that puddle together at her feet.

She wants to let out a noise, any noise. Her mind screams at her to call for help, be smart, use the vocal cords mother nature blessed her with. Instead, all that leaves her now iron tasting, blood filled mouth is the last soft, dying gurgle of a defeated prey.

 “Hmm... you taste just as good as you feel.”