Yes.

I make it a pleasure. For now. With this woman, as I've done time and again since Liquid brought this stray into our ranks. I pretend her face is another's from deceptively short years past. And it treats me with such ease out of battle that I thought I'd lost. But she allows me more. How she strains against me-- oh, far more.

Far more than the first beauty, the second or the last. Far more than my beloved Helena; than my masterful Commander. Liquid himself on a whole other tier, my advances eternally refused-- it hurts, you know, to have such delectable superiors, past or present, yes? Superiors that you can't touch? That play hard to get?

But could I really complain? As long as my desires are sated in the end... No, towards an end. Towards...The End.

Those eyes, flitting like broken wings.

She cries warm little streams for me to lick dry. When I touch her, when I grab and squeeze and press, she tells me she welcomes the force, invites the pain, finds solace in this trespass.

She cries and cries.

And I sigh in turn.

She asks that I cleanse her in accordance, that her blood be let, that she be cast from sin. But doesn't she realize that I, too, am a thing of sin? I tell her yes, yes, yes I will do these things for you. Yes, as you wish, o tight one. But my words are mindlessness. Pleasing, florid lies. I don't care about her plight. Let us only rut in sin together. I know that our times will come. With revolution on the horizon. Succulent freedom on the wind.

Muscles squeeze and shiver. Skin tightens, tingling with so many sensations striking like spears through layer after layer, ripping down to the bone and shaking, breaking, the poor soul encased within. Shattering weak fortitude; wresting delicate guttural moans. And I laugh. Helena had never been so responsive as this. She'd been an impregnable suit of hateful pride and woe. Nothing could have pierced it well enough to truly feel the yielding little folds of flesh below. She had never fully given herself. Never dreamt of it even as we came together. She was a creature of pride and devotion and family.

Just like her father, till death did they part. Heaven or Hell rest their tormented hearts, flying now with St. Michael to gentler pastures.

Shamefully, I never understood, but I respected them all the same.

The ties to such convictions of which I'd long been bereft. Mm...

But this woman has no sense of pride, of devotion, much less of family. She has nothing. And she is nothing. No real soul to shatter-- yet what ghost of a shell there lies before me, I revel in trying. A sobbing, fragile shell to caress and suckle upon. Until nothing may be left.

With every squeeze and every knead of fingers on flesh, she gushes like too sweet fruit. Ripe. Luscious. The promise of divine nectar charges my veins with electricity.

Helena, you were a darkly fair flower blooming in death. I could not call you by name. Only by power. My Queen.

Your father. My King.

I obeyed. I served. I loved every minute. Because I belonged.

This weeping willow, she is so small. Smaller than everyone else. Her eyes are like dotted pearls soaked in watery blood. Begging. Pleading. Can I sweep away her pain and sorrow? No, but let's just pretend. I will be both king and queen this time around. And she, my loyal subject. The decrees on our lips are all she needs. We will make her belong. We will make her love every minute as we did.

Peel the firm rinds and watch the fruit bloom full.

She writhes against my blade. Draw it slightly against those pleading lips, slowly, surely. Let a little blood flow. Let it mix. Give the coming nectar taste.

Isn't it delicious? One finger. Then two; I can't get enough. I want more. I take it the way it's meant to be taken.

Queen had been too proud. King, too distant. My aim to please had always fallen just short of its goal. But not now. Oh, that couldn't be farther from the truth. My tongue wrenches heaven from this broken thing-- Haha, she pulls my hair as if I'm an Andalusian to be reined.

Fine, I will dance to soothe a tear or two.

But let me dig into these murky, shaking thighs. Make them pretty with fine red crescents of pain to kiss away. Oh. The choice metal tang.

Make them stop, she weeps.

She pulls my hair taut across her belly. The cries, the tears, make them worthwhile. Please?

So, she wants to forget.

So, she snaps joints like a prattling doll at each fine cut on skin-wrapped chocolate. Apple blood? Ha...no. The blood of beasts supple yet pained, is so much more filling. The simple bite, the cutting zest of loving acid salt. Helena had been too perfect in her misery to mar. This woman, near absolute opposite and imperfection at its finest-- if only in mind and spirit, each slash would only bring her closer to such a feat.

The perfect delicacy.

My ears can almost hear the heated throb of blood through these thighs. And I wish I could slice them open like so and drink until my eyes turn blind from surfeit. But Liquid wants her largely unharmed so...

Let it be so.

I rise and look down upon the waif, I look down upon the face that yearns for Helena's place. Yearns for the attention I'd once given father and daughter Dolph alike, yearns for salvation neither of us had ever been blessed upon conception.

I flex and exhale in anticipation. It has been too long. Courtesy of Liquid the slave driver. Swelling, swelling, swelling. Here I sit perched at the pleasant little gate.

She is like a ragdoll as I pull her to my chest.

A simple grind and the mount is done. A quick thrust and recognition is tossed easily enough on long, dark hair. Not as dramatic as Helena's golden curls but this is just as well.

I play harmless tricks across her throat with my blade. She doesn't see but she feels. The cold steel. Blinded by tears, rocked slowly to a feverish sweat. Set the knife aside. Taste that soft, gasping throat with teeth instead. Bite only slightly. Do not penetrate the skin just yet. Wait until she aches and pounds and quakes all over. When the bloodflow is just right.

The Commander knew how to do it. I can do it, too.

This is my tribute to you. Do I have your blessings? Tears and sweat, blood and rapture, all for you?

She cries. She cries. She cries with short, rhythmic yelps. Am I absolved yet, she whispers. Can I be free now, she sighs. Oh little girl, not until I say so. Not until I'm done with you, yes? Hold me close, just like Helena did. Dig your nails into my spine. Let me feel as if I'd bleed from your playful, little claws.

Her round, wet face falls on my shoulder, neck bared as if she knows it's the ideal offering for absolution. She's figured it out. I kiss it, the sharp curve; I let my teeth and tongue brush the tensed muscle.

Just a simple bite is all it takes. Just a gentle gnash to make the red come forth.

She is like a ragdoll, yes, with a tiny fire pulsing deep inside, threatening to burn her up, even threatening to scorch me down to seizing sinews. I can picture it now. I can feel it now. She's close, she hurts for release. Helena, crying more than you ever could. Commander, calling more than you'd ever dare. Girlish one, let me lift you up high. We'll reach for those heavenly stars together. So tight.

Reach, reach.

Say hello to the Heavenly Host, my girl. And welcome the white rain of Rapture.

Hell had no vacancies.

Yes, not even for this wicked wretch.

Unfortunately.

So I make my hell on earth.

And I make it a pleasure, to be sure.

--

Sixth: This isn't about who I find hottest of the Beauties. This is about...what...things? Anyhow, thanks to kajnrig for proofreading at least two-thirds of this and telling me that Vamp sounded a little too goddamn formal. Here's hoping the other third isn't so bad as well. Thanks to any who read this in advance. Also, sorry to those, if any, which I'm sure there aren't, waiting on The Reign Game... I feel like a general waste of life. Tata.