At this hour, she probably thinks the Devil has forgotten about her. But he hasn't. The tried true lesson to 'save the best for last' applies here—to her. If his promise and needs didn't bring him down, then the shrill screaming would have eventually. Even the runt of the litter grew teeth at some point, and she has, baring them as soon as he steps into the cold, dry cellar.
She brought her friends just like he asked, perfectly playing the role of a needy, depressive friend that no one really wanted on their conscience. Even worse than a runt: she pretended to be a burden. But this burden has fangs.
She wanted revenge and blood for the ones who said they cared, and he provided thus. With only a few stipulations.
The Devil gives, but he takes more in the end. Yes, of course, he can sympathize with her plight, but she was too delicious a morsel to let go for free. A woman who craved carnage was nothing to ignore. He, also, would want their pain or anyone's that brutalized his being the way they had hers. If their agony was further attainable, he might have seen what she did with bound victims at her feet, but as they'd been dead for hours now, it was merely the memory of their pain that he savored, standing beside her.
Poor little morsel. All tied up with nowhere else to go...
Not a single fairweather friend screamed her name when they found the puddle of blood left by her wounded body, neither did they beg to know what had happened to their sweet, lost lamb when Zombie laid his denticulated chainsaw into the man that pawed so desirously at her waist in the beginning. She was nothing now. For there was no one left to speak her name when she was gone. Therefore, no one would judge if he pulled her off the slab and molded her for his own pleasures.
He wanted her, so she was his.
The Devil had plans for this dark, early morning, and so he found himself staring ominously down at the forgotten babe. Aside from the zip ties, she was dressed in nothing but an unzipped body bag. Dried sweat marred the creamy, frothing blood at the dip of her throat, birthed from the wound on her temple. The hematoma that swelled her left eyebrow and socket was a start, but she needed more work.
This woman—the morsel—bled so beautifully, but her mask just wasn't quite right. He could fix that, of course. It was one of his... stipulations.
Her face needed to mimic the creature buried in her chest, because beneath her skin—so supple and warm—was a wolf. The screams had indeed turned into low howls and yips despite the way she brayed between panting gasps. A wolf sewed into lambskin… and a Devil ready to undress her.
The way she fought against him before, after he found her teetering off the cliffside with suicide on her mind, was so wild and furious despite the gurgle of apathy and inner pain. Such an exotic creature didn't deserve the mundane mask adorning her skeletal structure, not whatever pitiful life she had before.
Her hoarse screaming finally broke when he produced a blade from his robes, smiling pridefully behind his plastic, "I promised you I wouldn't forget about you."
"... take it," she begged so quietly—a venomous whisper.
"Hmm," he exhaled until his mask ran hot and chuckled softly, "Patience. It's time to see who you really are first."
"Do it-" her voice broke a moment until she swallowed dryly, "... slowly. I wah-wanna feel it."
The Devil let out a smoked-charge breath and thanked his luck for finding such a desperate, masochist lamb to the slaughter.
The first cut to her chin made his blood flood past his belt buckle as she shuddered a groan. Garden variety eyes stared into the ether, blinking wetly with unshed tears when he curled another cut down the soft slope, starting at the virgin fuzz near her ear to a smooth jowl. Blood leaked and fell, pooling into the bag beneath her.
Something about the cracks in her mind kept her still—something dark made her moan with pleasure. Or, perhaps an even more enticing thought, was that she knew as well as Devil did, how much she needed fixing. Beneath the black plastic, her knee bounced as the Devil stroked his stiletto down the other side of her face. The observable universe admired symmetry, and so he sliced her again, and again...
A faint moan beneath his blade brought him a wicked sense of heat—fuel that roused a beast waiting to be fed.
She twitched as he sliced, joining lines of red to follow the blade beneath the cut pattern of skin, peeling back diamond cuts off each cheek. Enraptured as he was by how little pain she spilled, a ripple of erotic sensation coursed beneath his sinew, mirrored in her, he assumed by the way her bones rattled.
Devil's little lamb brayed as he tugged a sliver off her chin—her face wobbling against the movement—until he snipped the thread of flesh that still connected her to that old guise. When the last rhombus was torn from between her brows, the sweat from before returned. He stared at it beading across her skin and carefully—gentle of her ashen layers—peeled away the black bag to reveal cherry red nipples pebbled from his handiwork.
The Witch did just as he asked: undress her, bind her, and zip her up only enough. He wanted to unwrap her just like this… revealed only in sections...
"Oh," he intoned beneath his tongue, throat, and guts—marveling with his thumb against the fatty undercarriage of one soft breast, "you're so close to perfect," he paused to inhale the rich aroma of her erotic pain and blood, "if only I'd cut these for you."
Her ribs bore old silver scars. Short, perfect lines or self-mutilation that reached further below the body bag. If only the Devil been there to run the razor through her skin and lick the wounds clean.
She stared in awe at him as he stroked her marks before cupping the front of her throat between the web of his palm, brushing the light, white fluff across her jaw. Her weeping chin bled sluggishly in time with the other three patterns etched wide open—hot, sticky essence pooling against the seal of their skins.
"Beautiful," he bellowed with a velvet timbre.
Devil pulled her into his nostrils, through his lips, and soaked her with his hands until her breathing became labored and greedy. Those pale lips parted. Twitched. Moaned. A whistle of words too low to decipher called out to him for something more than physical metamorphosis—more than the majestic pain.
He bent over, leaning in close until her pupils spread to each end of her lashes, and only then did he slide the mask atop his head to savor the way her tongue pressed forward to wet petals bereft of his kiss.
Chapped lips whispered, "... take me," the words less vague as they'd been all the times since. The lamb wanted to be skewed, the woman wanted to be fucked, yet the Devil wanted both.
Slowly, he unwrapped her from her dressing gown of black plastic and jello-blood. He lifted her spine, hips, and thighs as he tugged the body bag away, revealing a clumpy mess of red liquid haloing a beautiful, weak babe. She shifted for him, moving with sensuous motions as he admired the rawness of her naked form. So sweet and delicate. So very, very broken… and bloody.
Her wrists rested over her navel, heavy with fatigue—too low on blood or too high from passion—but the Devil only ran a palm down her belly to the valley of soft curls beneath, studying the way her lashes fluttered weakly. She might have felt cold elsewhere thanks to the low temperature, but here—between her thighs—she was hot.
Hummingbird breaths bounced the globes of her breasts, hypnotizing him until he couldn't resist the coaxing any longer. With his fingers stuffed between her inner thighs and labia, he leaned in for a taste of rose-colored nipples.
She mewled against his lips, hissed beneath his tongue, and cried between his teeth. Her nipples tasted of perspiration and sweetness. Such a rich flavor that he sucked her flesh into his mouth until his lips burned, finally crawling upon the metal slab for more.
Another twitch. Another moan. Bound hands reaching fingers into the folds of his robe, searching for something he hadn't given her permission to touch yet.
She sang a scream as soon as he raked a finger through her sticky folds to her swollen clitoris, fluids leaking between his digits. Her face bled as she strained into his mouth, pressing her tight nipple deeper against his slashing tongue until he was drooling against her as much as her pussy was his fingers. A snarl was all the warning he gave before feeling her from the inside.
Within, she was as tight and hot as a stab wound—firmer even and so much wetter.
The Devil snarled, slurping from one breast to the other with sanguineous lust that craved this lost little wolf in lambskin. Once more, she brayed but struggled upward into his maw, and then down over his rutting fingers, whispering for, "More… take more…" and gasping when he took it.
Behind him, one of the exit doors banged on its hinges.
Air displaced as another body walked entered the basement only to skid on their heels and quickly backtrack. The Devil never stopped, and the woman—the morsel—never startled. With a soft click, the intruder left, leaving him to sucks bruises into the supple fat of her breasts. He didn't mind the interruption only because he wanted a witness to her metamorphosis.
"Mmm," he groaned into her flesh, kissing the salty underside of her breast before sliding his tongue up and over her nipple to the dried blood inside her clavicle. Against her throat, he grinned, "I am going to tear you open and eat every last inch of you…"
Her insides clenched, drawing his fingers deeper—luring him deep as he sucked her pulse between his lips. When the skin was puckered with broken vessels, he hooked his fingers deep—relishing her strangled grunt—and stared at his handiwork.
Diamonds of exposed fat, vein, and broken vessels looked up into his eyes, begging him to break her in half so she could be put back anew. Devil smiled at her silent request and gave her weeping chin a lick that made her pussy strangle the three fingers he stroked into her. Slick, slippery fluids lubricated the motions, scenting the air as he drew in the smell of lust, blood, and rebirth.
Dying puffs of breaths wheezed between her lips as the moist muscles inside her slurped around his knuckles. Each brutal snap of his palm against her hot folds echoed wet slaps between them—each bruise against her cervix drove her to a catastrophic end.
Devil bared his teeth as her tongue twitched behind her own fangs. A drop of moisture hanging off his lip fell to hers, and—with a wolfish hunger—he leaned down to lick it up, devouring her mouth with his.
The sharp, dry cracks of skin curling her lips soon turned soft against his own. Each kiss was maddeningly slow as if she wished to savor the contact, but the Devil didn't mind. He merely groaned and bit at the thin, fragile skin until fresh blood soaked the tip of his tongue. Her teeth tasted of old sugar, boiled by the long night into something without description.
He ate at her mouth with raw kisses, turning her lips to carmine, then pressed down on her clitoris with his thumb while ravishing her cunt with his fingers.
"... yess-"she tried, only to get the Devil's teeth in her lower lip, crushing flesh and blood vessels into a well of blood. She belted a tight scream of shock, but the sound barely defined pain before she was trembling with pleasure.
Bound hands tugged at his face, twitching when they stabbed themselves against his sharp spikes. Fingers threaded between needle protrusions to grasp his jawline, opening herself up wider so his tongue could slide hotly against her own.
Her weak bites made his cock ache. Dull, dirty nails that tried to tear at the unfinished ink on his cheeks only left fire trails down his neck. Her claws were sweet… loving…
Devil gave her a fleeting open-mouthed kiss, grinning to himself as her lips rubbed together as though savoring the tingle. She didn't ask, but he knew what those hazy eyes wanted. With a tug on his sash, a toss of his open robe, and a slip of snug cotton, the Devil's cock weighted down her curls. He exhaled heat and brimstone.
Her heat lured him inside, slipping through dewy flesh and engorged folds to the tight, leaking depths of her sweet, sweet cunt.
His sweet, lost woman dug her shoulders into the steel bed, whimpering in pain, but he didn't mind. The first thrust would hurt, this he knew. Metal beads inflated the flared head of his cock, bumping down the thick ridges inside until he felt the bottom of her.
"... I didn't-haaa! It hurts," but the confession was slurred with a 'thank God' he punished her for by manhandling her legs around his waist. She was easier to manipulate while she was too preoccupied with the burning ache of him inside her. Even her breasts bounced harder as she shook with the sensation of it all.
Sluggish, appreciative moans worshipped him each time his cock struck her cervix. With every thrust forward—opening tense muscles beyond their limit—her body colored. Fresh sweat beaded and pooled, sliding into divots and alcoves like her clavicles, hips, and navel. The sight could have only been more beautiful with better lighting—with moonlight contouring her curves and the zip ties ruining her wrists.
The metal slab gleamed beneath her, reflecting off glistening perspiration across her skin, bleeding into the open wounds across her face that wrinkled as her expression contorted.
If she came again, the Devil doesn't notice. The overpowering rip of his orgasm allowed for nothing more than his own pleasure. The wet spurt of semen flushing from his sac, through his cock and into the deepest reaches of her womb, culled him. He only had a moment to pet down her belly and hips, massage her firm, round breasts and gently, purposefully squeeze her throat, before time was essential. She murmured his name—a reedy echo of pain and ecstasy—until he kissed her lips, sliding his cock from her heated slit with audible relish.
"Now, it's time," he paused to inhale the savory scent between her heaving breasts, "to put you back together. Just like I promised."
Yes, it would take gauze and patience. Blood would be lost, and splints fashioned. Tomorrow she'd need a bath with Epsom salts, soaked half to death, then massaged with antiseptic creams and thick lotions inside and out. For the next several days, weeks, and months, the Devil will have to fuck her thoroughly, cut her profoundly, and bring her into the flock as his personal pet just as he swore he would. Only then, will she be mended in time to mold further—to become what she always was—a wolf… a woman with fangs.
"Such a sweet, little babe," he called to her as he fed a needle through her knuckles, filling her with fresh blood for the gallons she lost, "and now, you belong to me."
"... may the Devil take me."