Seattle doesn’t change, not really. Cold. Wet. The mist was thick enough to blur the skyline into smudges of gray. Streets slick with rain, the air always heavy, like it’s pressing you down into the concrete. Everyone walks fast here, heads low, collars up. Pretending they don’t see the things piling up in the news.

The bodies show up steadily, like clockwork. Every week or two. A homeless man slumped against a wall, skin pale under a streetlight. A delivery driver who never finished his route. A mall cop found facedown in the parking lot, sidearm still holstered.

Not students. Not since the linebacker. I was careful about that. Let the campus breathe, let the tension settle into the background. The police circle, sure, but the city is bigger than the campus. And Seattle has plenty of places for people to vanish without anyone asking too many questions.

Still, I feel the heat on me. Not literal, but close. Too many whispers. Too many uniforms drifting around corners. The city itself feels suspicious. Damp air clings to me like sweat, heavy with exhaustion, with fear.

It’s been a year already. Since it… No, not it. Since she took up residence inside me. Since the demon sank into my skin like ink and decided we were one.

Sometimes I forget where I end and she begins.

Now it’s restless. Pushing at me harder every night. Hungry. Always hungry. But not for this city anymore. Not for these wet streets, this constant gray. It wants something else. Dry air. Open sky. Dirt under my boots instead of rain-slick pavement.

And I want it too.

Back in my room, I stand over the sink, the mirror fogged around the edges from the cheap radiator heat. I wipe it with the side of my hand, smear a streak clear enough to see myself.

Or something like me.

Brown eyes staring back, but darker than I remember. Pupils too wide, swallowing light. Skin pale under the bathroom bulb, shadows etched into the hollows of my cheeks. I tilt my head, and for a second, the reflection doesn’t move right away. A split second late, like it’s deciding whether to follow.

Which me is looking back?

The one who crams for finals and laughs at dumb jokes in the dorms? Or the one who litters the city with bodies, week after week?

Or maybe it’s not me at all. Maybe it’s her. The demon, pressing her face against the glass from the inside. Trying it on.

My lips curve into a smile I don’t feel. In the mirror, it looks real enough.

I press my palm against the glass. It’s cool, damp with condensation. For half a second, I imagine the reflection pressing back.

The demon purrs low in my chest.

Seattle isn’t enough anymore.

~oO🐺Oo~

I don’t know why I chose this place. A year ago, I couldn’t have pointed to the Navajo Nation on a map. All I knew was Seattle: wet, gray, and now with too many eyes. I needed open sky, dry air.

So I booked a flight south. No plan, just a name. Hiking trails, long treks, and an emptiness that promised something different.

The Greyhound out of Phoenix rattles across the desert, windows framing scrub, rust-red mesas, shadows cast by clouds too high to touch. I press my forehead to the glass and watch the colors shift as the sun sinks: yellows into oranges into bruised purples, fading to black. The bus is quiet. No one looks at me. Hood up, earbuds in with no music playing. I listen instead to the tires’ drone, and beneath it, the demon humming, pleased.

Flagstaff is colder than I expected. From there, I hitch with a local whose pickup is stacked with boxes and water jugs. He says nothing, just drives. Asphalt thins to dirt roads cutting through endless desert. The land opens wide, and something in me settles. Or maybe not me. Maybe the thing inside me, pressing forward like it remembers this place.

The truck stops at a cinderblock trading post, paint bleached pale, letters rusted on the sign. I thank him, pull my hood tight, and step inside.

Dust, old wood, coffee gone bitter. Shelves sag with canned goods and rope. A corkboard of notes: rides, odd jobs, funerals. Two old men at a card table fall silent when I enter. A ceiling fan ticks above, one shift from collapse.

Behind the counter, a woman looks up. Hair streaked white, braid thick down her back, face lined like the land outside. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t frown. Just measures me.

“You bring something with you,” she says at last. Her voice is low, cracked with age, but it carries. The two old men fall silent, heads lifting.

I freeze, my hand still on my backpack strap. “Excuse me?”

Her eyes narrow, as if looking straight through me. “Something inside you. Not yours. Not from here. Wrong.”

The demon shifts against my ribs, amused.

The door swings open behind me, cool air rushing in. Boots scuff the floor. A man steps inside: mid-twenties, lean, sun-browned, hair shoved under a wool cap. Jacket dusted with red dirt.

“Evening, Auntie,” he says warmly, nodding to her before noticing me. His eyes take me in: the hood, the pack, the way I’m caught under her stare. “Looking for something?”

“Hiking,” I answer quickly. “Multi-day routes. Just wanted some information.”

He glances at her. “She’s new. You’re scaring her off.” Respect in his tone, but also a shield.

The woman mutters something sharp in Navajo, then drops her gaze.

The man offers his hand. “I’m Daniel. A guide, if you’re looking for trails.” His grip is steady, his smile too quick, his eyes too curious.

Her words cling to me, but I force a smile and turn to him. The demon hums, restless.

“Issy,” I say, taking his hand. “You know the hikes here? Not the brochure trails. Something different.”

He studies me. “Most people want overlooks. Easy in, easy out.”

“I’m not most folks. I didn’t ride a bus for half a day for an easy overlook. I want something harder. Different. The kind of trail you don’t tell just anyone about.”

A flicker of caution. He shifts his weight, boots scuffing the dusty floor. “Plenty of wild out there. Plenty that turns bad quickly. You hike alone?”

“Always.” The word cuts sharper than I mean.

He exhales. “Shadow canyons aren’t just tricky. Dangerous. Tomorrow I'm headed that way anyway. I’ll go with you. Make sure you don’t get lost.”

I study him. He isn’t offering because he trusts me. But he knows the land. That makes him useful.

“Perfect,” I say, letting a smile ghost my lips.

~oO🐺Oo~

Morning comes grey and brittle, the kind of winter light that never wakes all the way. Daniel’s truck smells like dust and gasoline, the bench seat worn down to the springs. I sit close enough to feel the tremor of the engine under my ribs, my pack wedged between my boots.

He drives without hurry, one hand loose on the wheel, the other on the gearshift. The land spreads wider with every mile: flat brush giving way to ridges, then the faint cuts of a canyon.

“Not many come this way in winter,” he says at last, voice even. “Too cold at night. Too easy to get lost.”

My reflection stares back from the passenger window, eyes that look like mine but don’t feel like mine. I turn before she can look too long. “Maybe that’s what I’m after.”

His mouth twitches: amusement or warning, but he doesn’t push. Just downshifts as the pavement ends, the truck rattling over gravel.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” I ask.

“Not unless there’s something worth saying.”

I smile faintly, letting the silence stretch. “Then maybe I’ll just have to make it worth it.”

That earns me the quickest glance before his eyes return to the road.

“You say not many people come out here,” I say, tracing circles on the fogged glass.

Daniel’s jaw moves, but he says nothing.

“Doesn’t sound like a warning,” I murmur. “Sounds like an invitation.”

We leave the truck at the trailhead, and the canyon swallows us quickly. Daniel sets the rhythm with a long stride, boots crunching stone, barely winded as the trail tilts steeper. I let him pull ahead now and then, lingering on the walls rising around us: bands of rust, ochre, bone, layered like stories pressed into stone.

By late afternoon, the sun slants low, shadows striping the walls. Light pours in at an angle, golden and heavy. Daniel leads into a side cut, a faint trail dipping into shade. Heat eases, sound shifts: a trickle, then the steady hush of water.

We step into a hollow where the walls press tight and a pool lies dark and still, fed by a ribbon-thin stream. Cottonwoods cling to the banks, bark peeling pale as paper.

Daniel shrugs off his pack. “Here,” he says. “We rest here tonight.”

I drop mine with a thud, rolling my shoulders. The place feels hidden, secret: the kind you’d never find without someone who already knew. I kneel at the water’s edge, dip my fingers in. The cold shocks me, sharp enough to steal my breath.

Behind me, canvas rustles as he unrolls his tent, steady motions of someone who’s done this a hundred times.

I glance back, voice lighter. “Guess I lucked out, getting the local tour.”

He doesn’t look up. “Not luck. Just timing.”

~oO🐺Oo~

By the time I pitched my tent, the light had gone the color of dark honey, shadows stretching long across the canyon floor. Daniel had a fire going, small but steady, a dented pot steaming on his little stove. The sharp, artificial scent of ramen curled into the air.

Practical. No frills. Still, there was comfort in the sight, like he’d slipped into routine without thinking. A paper bag lay open beside him, jerky and trail mix scattered like an offering to the dust.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” he said, stirring with chopsticks that looked older than the stove. “Not gourmet, but it’ll fill us.”

I crouched by the fire, warmth licking my shins, jacket pulled closer. “Three-minute ramen and jerky,” I said with a small smile, “better than plenty of meals I’ve had. And besides…” My gaze lingered on him a moment too long before I looked away. “…imagination makes up for a lot.”

His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. Instead, he split a strip of jerky, passing me half, his fingers brushing mine in the handoff.

“You know this canyon?” he asked after a moment, eyes fixed on the flames. “They say spirits live in these walls. Voices calling travelers deeper. Some never came back.”

I chewed slowly, watching the firelight cut his profile in gold and shadow. “Maybe they just didn’t want to be found,” I murmured, letting it hang between us.

~oO🐺Oo~

After dinner, the canyon falls quiet. The fire burns low, coals glowing, smoke curling upward, while Daniel fusses with his gear. I let the silence stretch until it feels thick, like the air before a storm.

“I think I’ll wash off,” I say casually. Dust my hands, rise, and slip towards the pool. The moon hasn’t climbed high, but canyon walls catch the last spill of twilight, painting everything in pale violet and copper.

The water glitters dark, ripples spreading slowly. I pause, shrug off my jacket, and lay it neatly on a rock. Then my shirt, and boots, denim brushing over my hips. Piece by piece, I slip free of my clothes, letting the air brush over every curve.

The air is cool, raising goosebumps, but the water promises something smoother. I move slowly, wanting him to wonder: if he looks, if he doesn’t, if curiosity will win.

The pool takes me in like a secret. I chose a spot with care, where the canyon’s spine loosens and the walls open to a spill of pale light. The surface is black glass until I break it, ripples spilling outward in silver rings.

The cold water shocks, sharp enough to steal my breath. My nipples tighten before I reach the deeper shelf, my body betraying me… or maybe serving me.

The fire flickers faintly against the stone. If he sits quietly, he’ll hear: splashes, shallow breath, the small sounds a girl tries to hide when she thinks she’s alone.

I’m not alone. And I don’t want to be.

I drift on my back, letting the moon trace me, glazing my stomach, thighs, breasts. Droplets shine like mirrors. My hand drifts lower, hovering at the smooth curve between my thighs. Not pressing yet. Just a teasing weight, enough to make me shift and sigh.

I swim to the ledge I’ve chosen, water cascading down me in shining trails, pooling at my spine before dripping from the curve of my ass. I sit, legs drawn up, toes trailing the surface, feigning modesty I don’t feel. Slowly, lazily, I open myself, tilting back on my hands. My pussy glistens with more than river water.

One hand slides down my inner thigh, circling closer. The other braces me against the stone as my hips tilt forward. Fingers find me easily. I’m wet, eager, and the cool water is doing nothing to dull the heat pulsing between my legs.

I touch myself in slow, teasing circles, lifting into the motion. Soft moans spill out low, carrying through the canyon like a ribbon of pleasure. I close my eyes, moonlight washing my throat, breasts, and stomach. Walls feel close, amplifying every sound: water, slick rhythm, sighs given to no one… or to him.

I’m not hurried. This is the show, the invitation. My body is a lantern, swinging, calling him to follow.

My back arched, lips parted, a soft cry escaping as my hand presses firmer. Louder this time, enough that he knows it’s no accident.

It’s me. I want to be found.

The stone is slick beneath me, cool, grounding, but my skin burns. Fingers slide lower, every ripple carrying my secret. I tip my head back, let the moonlight wash over me, and let the sound go: soft, sharp, a hook cast into the dark.

I feel her inside me, urging me on. Hungry.

Louder, Issy. Show him what he’s missing.

“Fuck…” I whisper, loud enough to carry. My nails graze my thigh before I find my clit again, harder, faster. Every nerve ignites, sharp and sweet, and it blurs: where I end, she begins. It’s both of us. Me chasing the edge, her pulling me forward, both knowing exactly how to use this body.

Pleasure builds until it aches, until I can’t stay still. My free hand claws at the stone, slick and desperate. I rock harder, faster, sounds spilling out, shameless. A performance, yes— but real. Every shiver, every gasp meant for him.

When it hits, it hits like sparks in dry grass: sudden, fierce, all-consuming. I cry out, letting the sound split the night, fly to wherever he is. My body shakes with it, water lapping my calves, chest heaving in moonlight.

Beneath it all, I feel him: his attention, his pull, drawn in by the scent and song of me. Exactly as she wants. Exactly as I want.

~oO🐺Oo~

I open my eyes. The canyon is still, the water black and shimmering, but the moonlight catches him, frozen at the edge of the pool. His eyes are wide, disbelief written across every line of his face. He knows he should look away. He knows he shouldn’t. But he doesn’t.

I see it immediately. The bulge pressing at the front of his pants, the way his fingers clench at his sides. His mouth opens, shuts, opens again, but no words come.

I let a slow smile curl over my lips, tilting my head just enough for the moonlight to catch my throat, my chest, the curve of my stomach. My hand moves with deliberate rhythm, fingers tracing over myself again, letting the soft, slick slide of skin against skin carry across the water. I tilt my hips, arch my back, letting the droplets run in glimmering trails down my curves.

“Come, Daniel...” I murmur, voice low and steady, meant for him but also from the demon inside me, feeding off the tension, feeding off the energy I pull from him. “Don’t fight it.”

You won’t. You can’t.

I slide back into the water slowly, hips swaying just enough to hypnotize, fingers never still, eyes locking onto his. I see his chest rise and fall, see the battle behind his eyes as his body betrays him. I move closer to the ledge, pressing my wet palms against the stone, and lean forward slightly, letting the moonlight trace the arch of my spine, the swell of my breasts.

Every motion is slow, measured, magnetic. The demon hums inside me, amplifying the heat, the rhythm, the pull. I brush my lips with the tip of my fingers, glance down at my hand as if teasing him with the proof of what he’s longing for.

“Come closer,” I whisper, my voice like silk and fire. “You want this. You know you do.”

I watch him swallow, trembling slightly, the air between us thick with something dangerous and undeniable. He takes a step. My pulse quickens. Every nerve in my body vibrates in time with his hesitation and desire.

I shift, pressing my fingers deeper, letting my back arch, hips tilt, breasts push forward: the full spell of me on display. I am the moonlit canyon, the water, the sound of my own breath, and moans. I am all of it, and he cannot resist.

The first step becomes another. His eyes are locked on me, his body betraying him, every thought drowned in the pull I have cast. The demon inside me hums louder. This is the moment. The apex. I am irresistible, unavoidable, and he knows it.

He’s rooted to the bank, frozen between shame and desire, the poor boy trying to summon some decency while his cock betrays him. The bulge in his pants is impossible to hide, straining, twitching, as if it wants me more honestly than he ever could admit aloud.

I lean back on the slick rock, water dripping from my nipples, tracing down my ribs. My thighs part, slow, deliberate, and I drag two wet fingers through my folds with a sound I know he can hear. That little squelch: obscene and irresistible.

His breath stops, and I smile.

The demon inside me purrs, urging me to tighten the thread around him. I can feel his pulse from here, the way his chest rises too fast, the way his eyes widen when I circle my clit with languid, knowing strokes. Every twitch of his cock, every shallow breath, feeds me.

“Daniel… come…” I whisper his name like a spell, like honey melting in the dark. His knees buckle slightly. He swallows hard, mouth dry.

I stand, water dripping from me, hair heavy against my shoulders, and climb onto the flat rock ledge. No shame, no hesitation: just me, glistening, bared to him under the swollen moon. My legs spread wider as I settle, fingers slipping back inside, knuckles deep, pleasuring myself slowly while keeping my gaze locked on his.

He can’t look away. Oh, he wants to. I can see the panic flicker in his eyes, he knows he shouldn’t. But his body… his body is already kneeling, trembling under my command, even before I give it.

I arch my back, moaning louder now, letting it echo in the canyon. Not the cry of a girl lost in pleasure, but a siren’s wail, tuned to him, made to hollow him out and fill him with nothing but hunger. I rub harder, faster, hips lifting to meet my own hand, and the demon stirs with delight, pouring heat through my veins. She loves how easily he unravels, how little resistance he has.

I can feel him slipping deeper into my spell. Every pump of my fingers is a tug on his restraint. Every sigh, every gasp is a hook dragging him closer.

When I climax again, it’s not just for me. It’s for him. I throw my head back, scream his name into the canyon, let the sound crack him open. My orgasm rolls through me, waves of molten fire, thighs quivering as I gush onto the rock. My scent, my heat, my pleasure— carried straight to him.

And when my eyes snap back to his, glowing with the demon’s hunger, I know he’s mine already.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. But his cock… his cock is begging.

The way he trembles where he stands makes me ache. That sweet ache of power. The demon inside me purrs, urging me forward, urging me to stop playing and start claiming. I rise from my stone seat. His breath quickens. He doesn’t move. He can’t.

I pad toward him, hips rolling in a rhythm older than I am. The soft moss muffles my steps, making me feel like a predator closing in. He’s taller, broader, but none of it matters. His chest heaves as though he’s run for miles, his fists clenching at his sides as if he can still pretend he doesn’t want this. Pretend he isn’t mine already.

I stop before him, so close I can feel the heat rolling off his body, the sharp mix of soap and sweat and pine clinging to his clothes. My hand lifts before I think, fingers brushing over the hard plane of his stomach through his shirt. The muscle flinches under my touch, but he doesn’t step back. My nails trail lower, dragging down until I find the thick ridge straining against his pants.

His gasp is broken, desperate. My lips curl.

I press my palm flat over him, squeezing just enough to make him groan. His eyes squeeze shut, like it’ll save him, like he can shut me out if he doesn’t see me. But the demon inside me knows better. I know better. He’s already bound: by lust, by fear, by that heat crawling through him that I can feed.

“Open your eyes,” I whisper, though it comes out lower, rougher, threaded with something dark and sweet. My voice is the water flowing, the fire popping at camp, the song of something feral.

When his gaze meets mine again, it’s glassy, wide, helpless. His hips twitch against my hand, chasing the smallest bit of friction, and I reward him with a slow squeeze.

God, it thrills me: his size, his strength, all crumbling under my touch. I press closer, chest to chest, nipples hard against his shirt, water soaking into the fabric. My mouth hovers just under his ear, close enough for him to feel my breath when I murmur, “I want this. And you want it too. Don’t you?”

He shudders, and that’s all the answer I need.

I grind my palm harder against his cock, claiming, no longer teasing. Not asking. Taking. Every stroke makes him weaker, until he’s panting, pliant, tilting into me like a man bewitched. Which, in a way, he is.

The demon inside me laughs, delighted. She guides my hand, shows me how to milk his hunger, how to bend him fully under the weight of mine. And god, it feels so good.

He doesn’t move when I step closer. Doesn’t even breathe, not properly. Just stands there with his chest rising shallow, his pupils so wide they eat the color of his eyes. I can smell the heat rolling off him, sharp and sweet like crushed sage left too long in the sun.

I reach for him. My hand trails up his chest, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt until I find the frantic pound of his heart. He jerks at the touch, then freezes, trapped between the instinct to flee and the deeper pull to fall.

“Yes,” I whisper, though the word is more breath than sound. My palm slides higher, grazing his throat, feeling the tremor in the tendons beneath my touch. He swallows hard, and I smile. He’s mine already.

The demon inside me purrs, its hunger wrapping around my own. It guides the angle of my wrist, the pressure of my fingertips, the way I lean in close enough for him to feel my breath on his skin. I don’t tease. I don’t wait for him to ask. I take.

My other hand drifts lower, across the hard line of his stomach, until I press against the rigid swell straining at the front of his pants. He gasps, a half-choked sound that cracks open into a groan. His hips jerk forward without thought, without control.

“Look at you,” I murmur, voice thick with heat, with possession. “Already hard, already aching… and you haven’t even tasted me yet.”

His lips part, but no words come. Only breath. Only need.

I squeeze him through the fabric, slow and deliberate, drinking in the way his whole body shudders at the contact. It’s not just lust: it’s surrender, raw and helpless. His will unraveling thread by thread as I hold him, as the demon inside me winds tighter around his spirit, coaxing, claiming.

He doesn’t know it yet, but he’s past the point of choice. His body belongs to me. His hunger belongs to me. Soon, his soul will too.

~oO🐺Oo~

I tug at his shirt, slow at first, then harder when his arms don’t move fast enough. “Off!” I command, and the word sinks into him like a hook. He obeys, clumsily, lifting his arms. I strip the fabric over his head and toss it aside, my gaze devouring the sweat-slick muscle of his chest.

“Good,” I purr, dragging my nails down the line of his chest. He shivers.

I press him back until the edge of the rock catches his thighs. A firm push to his chest makes him fold, helpless, and I smile when he sits exactly where I want him.

“Stay,” I whisper, though I know he couldn’t rise even if he tried. My hands fall to his belt, unfastening it with a flick, then sliding the zipper down with agonizing slowness. His cock is already straining, visible against the fabric. I free him, stroking once, just enough to make him groan and arch into my hand.

The demon inside me approves, winding tighter around us both. His lust, his fear, his need… they buzz against my skin, sweet fuel for the hunger curling in my stomach.

I climb onto his lap, my thighs bracketing his, my weight pressing him down. His breath stutters. My hand guides him, the head of his cock nudging against the slick heat between my legs. I hold his jaw with my other hand, forcing his eyes to mine.

“Look at me,” I whisper, voice like smoke and command. “Don’t you dare move… this is mine."

The words spill from my mouth, but I feel them double, echoing inside me: sharper, heavier, undeniable. No longer just a whisper in my head. Hers and mine at once, a single voice, a single command. My chest tightens, heat crawling down my spine. For the first time, I realize she isn’t just guiding me. She’s with me, fully.

I sink down slowly, every inch of him filling me as his head falls back, his mouth breaking open in a silent cry.

I roll my hips, savoring the way his body bucks despite himself, the way he trembles beneath me, completely undone. My nails dig into his shoulders, marking him as mine, each thrust stealing more of his breath, more of his will.

The demon inside me feasts. And I ride him like a queen taking her rightful due.

He groans, shudders beneath me, his hands twitching like he wants to grab, to touch— but he doesn’t dare, not unless I tell him. And I won’t. Not yet. I grind harder, slow and deliberate, until his head tips back and his throat is bare to me.

The demon stirs, delighted. Her hunger coils around my spine, arching me against him. I feel her savor as much as I do: the tight grip of my body on him, the way his breath shudders, the helpless look in his eyes. He is worshipping me without words, bound in lust, unable to look away, unable to resist.

I move harder. Faster. His chest rises beneath me, his hands twitch at his sides like he wants to hold me, but can’t… won’t, because I have not told him he may. His cock throbs deep inside me, the steady beat of his pulse a drumbeat that feeds both my craving and hers.

“Take it,” I hiss, voice low and sharp. “Take all of us.”

The moonlight glances across his damp skin, highlighting the sweat at his temples. I ride him like the night itself is watching, like the whole world has narrowed down to this: my body taking what it wants, my heat consuming him.

The demon laughs inside, dark silk curling through my bones.

Yes. Yes. Take him. Let him see. Let him feel how endless we are.

Her hunger unfurls, reaching, drinking in the strength of him with every thrust. My senses are sharpened past the edge of mortal pleasure: I can hear the rise and fall of his breath, taste the iron-salt of his fear under the sweet ache of his desire. I can feel his heart hammering inside him, each beat drawn closer to me.

My world tilts, smears at the edges. The rhythm I set buckles into something wilder, my hips snapping down, grinding, riding him harder. The heat that coils inside me is blinding, swelling into a flood I can’t dam. My nails rake his chest, his back, not to hurt but to anchor myself, because I’m slipping—slipping.

The demon purrs inside me. She presses closer, wrapping around my nerves, tugging at my pulse, heightening everything until my skin hums with fire. I feel her fingers woven into mine, her voice echoing in my throat, her hunger spilling into my movements. I am not alone in this body. I am two, and yet seamless, braided together by lust and need.

Every thrust of him inside me is a pulse of light, each roll of my hips another tether snapping loose. My moans twist darker, layered, like another woman singing through me. My vision swims: his face, open and awestruck, haloed in shadow that drips and curls like smoke. His eyes widen when he sees it, and I know he sees her too.

I’m close again… God, too close. My thighs quake, my stomach tightens, my breath comes ragged and sharp.

The air thickens, heavy with something unholy. My back arches, my cry tearing out: raw and inhuman, as the orgasm rips through me. For one searing instant, I see everything in perfect clarity: his cock buried deep inside me, the demon’s shadowed hands sliding over my skin, her mouth open against mine in a kiss no one else can see.

The heat rises faster than I can hold it down. My hips roll harder, my hands claw at his shoulders for balance, for control, for something to tether me. Every inch of him inside me feels like fire pressed to raw skin, burning me open.

“Yes... ours,” I murmur, low and dark, and the demon’s laughter curls through my mind at the same instant. Yes… ours, all of it.

The edges of my vision shiver with shadow.

I’m moaning, or maybe she is. The sound is thick, ragged, shameless. I slam down on him, shuddering with the next crest of my own orgasm. It crashes over me, harder than I can contain, my whole body tightening around him, wringing him, feeding her through me. She laughs inside me: low, wicked, delighted, and I feel her spreading, blotting out the edges of my sight.

My vision flickers, edges darkening, as though the canyon is closing in. I can’t hold on. My thoughts slip, scatter, dissolve. The shadows thicken. The last thing I feel is his heat buried deep inside me and the demon’s claws curling tight around my heart, pulling me down, down into blackness.

~oO🐺Oo~

The gravel crunches under my boots as I step up to the truck. The same truck that brought me out here, but it feels different now… emptier, with only me left to climb inside. I pull the door open, slide into the driver’s seat. The leather is warm against the back of my thighs, the air inside stale with dust and pine sap. For a moment, I just sit there, staring out the windshield at the trailhead, at the faint line where the path vanishes into the trees.

The keys are heavy in my hand. Too heavy. I roll them across my palm, the metal pressing little half-moons into my skin. They feel like relics, like something from a life I no longer remember. I turn them anyway. The engine stirs, hums, settles into a low purr.

Civilization lies hours down the road: gas stations, strip malls, people chasing their small and frantic lives. I should feel relief… I should want to wash, sleep, and pretend nothing happened. But the thought tastes sour in my mouth.

She is still with me. Closer now, louder. Her voice drips down my spine like hot wax, curling into my thoughts until I can’t tell which are mine and which are hers.

Why go back? She whispers. Why pretend to be small again? You’ve seen what you are.

My hands tighten on the wheel. Knuckles pale. Breath shallow. The memory of him rises: the heat of his body, the panic in his eyes, the way his soul cracked open. A shiver ripples through me, equal parts hunger and shame. Except… with every passing minute, the shame fades, leaving only desire.

I see flashes when I close my eyes. The splatter of blood, painting the red canyon walls, spraying and sliding until it vanished into patterns older than memory.

No one will find him. Not out there. His bones will bleach in the sun, his name dissolve into silence, another offering swallowed whole by the desert.

And I was there to watch it, to make it happen. To feel him become mine.

The shame flickers, but weaker now, a dying ember smothered by the heat that still coils inside me. A hunger that has teeth, and it whispers louder each time I remember.

The truck lurches forward onto the empty road. Dust swirls in the rearview like ghosts trying to follow. I don’t look back.

You belong to me, she says.

No, not even a whisper now, her voice is my voice. My lips curve into a smile that doesn’t feel entirely my own. Civilization draws nearer with every mile, but so does the gnawing need curling inside me.