The Grip of the Vein

The first time I saw him, he was standing in the corner of my bedroom.

His skin was pale like moonlight on a corpse. He didn’t move or speak.

But his eyes were black pools fixed on me. Fear and desire are sisters.

On the third night, he was at my feet. It was monstrous.

It was beautiful. I touched the ice-cold girth. The veins throbbed, squirming like worms

under the skin. He pinned me to the mattress. It wasn’t a penetration; it was

a violent invasion. I felt him in my stomach, feeding on me. The pleasure became

an absolute agony. Now, I wait for him every night. I crave the