Kiss of Death
In a blue night, I visit his room through his windows. He is sleeping soundly on his bed, his body a comfortable contour under his sheets.
I linger over him, adoring the way he looks in the darkness. A part of me wishes to join him beside in his comfort, and silently, I'd hear him breathe, in and out, the only noise besides the ventilation, and the hum of his alarm clock.
But that is not what I am here for.
His face is turned sideways, resting on his pillow, and I head over and kneel down by his bed, and there, by his closed eyes,
I feel his breath on my face. And then I lean in, and quickly wrap my mouth over his in a tight kiss.
His reaction is immediate; his eyes jolt open in rudeness, and he begins to squirm -- for my lips have been coated with a deep black poison that carries with it a taste of blackberry and the most extreme pain.
So with my hands, I cradle his face securely - while he struggles to pull away from my lips, his muffled screams adding to my delight.
I'm kissing him, not because I know him, or someone has sent me on their behalf to kill, but because it is simply wonderful. Like a music all on its own. Each and every homme is different and unique in the kissing; some of them would breakdance in their beds, some of them would moan and cry, while others would gag and even try to vomit. But all the same, I savour them with the utmost joy.
In his case, he is thrashing on his bed like he's being possessed -- the mattress squeaking and his bedframe rattling; he'll wake up everyone else with that noise, so I climb onto his bed, on top of him, and I hold my own body, my breasts against him to muffle his erratic frenzy.
He tries to paw my face away with his hands, and he does succeed; a brief lapse of my kissing, and saliva spills from his mouth, mine and his - he frothes and gurgles, and coughs out, and I recognise the inhalation before the scream --
I won't let him scream. So I interrupt his gasp with another kiss, and I promise never to let him go until the end.
I hold onto his hands, my fingers clutching in-between his in a deadlock (like lovers), and he is utterly helpless in my embrace, as his moans eventually diminish, and his squirms reduce to petite quivers, and finally, nothing.
And even though he is lifeless now, I linger over his lips for another minute, the fine texture of them bristling with tender lines. The rush of the experience has surged warmth all over my body, and I feel my heart palpatating - I brush aside my hair from my sweat-stained face, and at last, I pull away from him.
His eyes are frozen wide open, the shock of the seconds ago etched onto their expression, a few tears still wanting to escape, and it is a haunting beauty to see.
I leave his room as silently as I've entered it. I don't dwell on how terrible his family's cries will be in the following morning - only on how my next partner might be like.