Past Indiscretions

by SpikesKat

Punk music blares from the speakers, the mix of metal and male screams a perfect backdrop to the commotion in the large open room. 

You recline back against the pillows scattered on the rug and it affords you the perfect view of your lover’s face as he slowly sucks you off. It, combined with the drugs running through your system, has your body in a state of near euphoria. The only thing that can make it better is the rush found in demonic possession. 

You glance leisurely about the room, lids at half mast – Ethan has a mouth on him like a well-practiced whore and the skill to ensure that at least half of your attention is on him and the way he makes you feel – but your gaze is alert for all that, taking in the chaos around you. 

The mindless sex. 

The spell-casting. 

The stench of both are heavy in the air, and damned it if doesn’t make you harder. 

Makes you want to thread your fingers through Ethan’s hair and hold him in place while you fuck his mouth until you come and provide your own scent to the mix. 

And it’s like he knows you, knows what you’re thinking, because he suddenly stills, and when you center your attention on him again, he’s staring up at you, a yes on his face – use me, take me, do whatever you want to me. 

Your eyes flick briefly to his own equally-hard cock. 

Then you’re back to staring at his face, and it’s not just your surroundings that has him complacent between your legs, eager for whatever you might mete out, be it pleasure or pain, or a combination of the two. 

There’s something in his eyes. An emotion that breaks through your high and pins you in place. 

You think back to the first time the two of you met, a pub not far from the Watcher’s Council – the place of your rebellion. Ethan had shown up not long after your father had left, having given you his ultimatum: join the Council or be cut off from the family fortune. You’d taken to Ethan right away, of course. What wasn’t to like about a man with similar interests to your own? Never mind the fact that you were thumbing your nose at your father. You’d become fast friends and stood side by side in your debauchery. 

You sit up and he does too, backing away from you like he’s done something wrong, overstepped himself somehow. You say nothing as you get to your feet, but quickly offer him a hand up when his face appears to fall. 

He takes it and together you leave the room and seek out someplace quieter, away from the devilment being had.

You blink and suddenly remember where you are – another life, another time. You glance down at your tweed-covered frame and your shoulders droop with guilt… and resignation. You know that you’re better off for having turned your back on that life and embraced one of moral fortitude. 

And, perhaps, if you tell yourself that often enough, you might actually come to believe it someday. 

Paltry existence though it may be.

The End

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