He Knew the Body—But Not the Thing Inside
And he was already losing.
He moved to the window. Touched the stone sill with his palm. Something in the earth answered—low, rhythmic, not quite pain, not quite memory. A vibration that moved up his arm and settled in his chest.
The wind stirred.
His thoughts spiraled.
The stories. The warnings. The mansion with the "EL" engraved in its gate. The fear in his uncle's eyes. His sister's old woman whispering: "He is the beginning of it… the curse in a man's body."
Desmond laughed bitterly. "Old tales," he whispered. "Just stories."
But he didn't believe himself.
His muscles tightened.
He closed his eyes.
And that's when he felt it.
A finger. Cold. Damp. Pressing lightly against his bare shoulder.
It slid—downward. Over skin. Over muscle. Slow. Testing.
Then the body pressed into his back.
Soft. Feminine. Familiar.
But cold. Unnatural.
The softness curled around him. The curves were real, but the sensation was off—like touching something alive but hollow.
He didn't move. Couldn't.
Then came the whisper, razor-soft:
"Let's make love like we used to…"
His chest seized.
The hand against him slid lower. Not hurried. Calculated. As if taking inventory of his body, as if every inch was a map being studied for weakness.
And he knew this touch. Knew it intimately. But not like this.
Not this deadness wrapped in silk.
The woman—Joan? No. Not quite Joan anymore—pressed her mouth near his ear.
"I missed you," she whispered. "Did you miss me? Or are you still trying to be noble?"
Her lips grazed his skin.
And he knew then.
She wasn't speaking as Joan.
She was speaking as something inside her. Or something that had always been there.
Something ancient.
Something watching.
Something waiting.
His breath caught.
Because beneath the cold seduction, beneath the ghost-flesh and whispering voice—
He felt it.
It wanted him.
But not in the way lovers do.
In the way curses do.
As the first hand slid downward across Desmond's chest, a second emerged—he hadn't felt it arrive, but now both palms mapped their own paths across him. The sensation crossed beneath his ribs like two shadows drawing an X—cool nails dragging faint lines across his skin, like silk brushing dry leaves.
His body tensed. Not in resistance—but confusion. The hands weren't strong. They had to push to go lower. There was a subtle struggle in their grip. Not passion. Control.
He reached up and caught them both.
Cool. Almost lifeless. But he didn't let go.
He kissed them.
Fast. Hungry.
One kiss, then another, then another still—urgent, as though trying to swallow what these hands might take before they vanished. His breath quickened, the room closing in, and for a moment the world evaporated. But even in the thick heat of the moment, something in him twitched—off-rhythm.
It felt too smooth.
Too perfect.
Too designed.
Then she stepped into view.
A shoulder first—slick, luminous in the faint, flickering light. Then more. Bare skin glistening with fine moisture, glowing like porcelain in fog. Her form was flawless—absurdly so. The kind of body sculpted not by life, but by memory.
Pop.
The soft sound of lips touching skin again. And again.
Pop… pop…
Each kiss echoed, small but sharp, like water dripping in a forgotten cave.
The air thickened.
Steam clung to the windows. Fog swirled in silent spirals. Time paused. He felt weightless and leaden all at once.
His hands found her waist. Moved up. Possessive. Urgent.
Not love.
Need.
Then he looked at her face.
And froze.
It was Joan.
His wife.
The same woman who'd hissed at him. Disrespected him. Who had slammed the door in his face like he was a stranger.
Now here she was—bare, exposed, kneeling before him, eyes wide with something between hunger and power. Her gaze locked on his, not warm, not asking.
Knowing.
She knelt.
And tugged.
The thin towel fell.
Desmond didn't speak. He barely breathed. Her fingers hovered at his waist, then pressed. Cool, trembling. But not from fear.
From something deeper.
The steam in the room swelled. The silence grew intimate—suffocating.
He touched her shoulder, instinct over thought. His fingers drifted along her skin. But in the back of his mind, alarms whispered.
This wasn't reconciliation.
It was a test.
He looked deeper into her eyes, hunting for something—sincerity? Submission? Possession?
He saw it.
A flicker.
Uncertainty.
The tiniest crack in her mask.
And then he stepped back. Not rejection. Not escape.
Just breath.
The air shifted.
But she didn't stop.
Joan's hands moved with a rhythm born of memory and need, and Desmond's body betrayed him—arched, tensed, obeyed. A sharp breath punched through his lungs. He threw his head back.
His body strained. Not in resistance anymore. In surrender.
And still… something felt wrong.
Her hand wasn't just caressing flesh.
It was unraveling him.
Each stroke peeled him open—not just skin and sinew, but memory, shame, longing. A boy who had once longed to be seen… now being touched as if he never had been.
"God…" he whispered.
But he didn't mean divinity.
He meant fate.
He meant terror.
Moans broke from him—low, human, then louder. Raw. Wild. The kind of sound no man makes unless he is being undone.
The air hung thick—charged, humid, still. The world outside ceased to exist. There was no time. No anger. No marriage.
Only this.
The woman who broke him—remaking him with hands that knew his secrets better than he did.
Her eyes held him in place. That slight smile—no longer cruel, not exactly—was something else entirely. Knowing. Consuming. She had found a place in him that no one else had dared reach.
And she wasn't letting go.
His climax surged with violent grace. Not pleasure. Eruption. It hit her like a flood—across her brow, her cheeks, her lips.
She did not flinch.
Her tongue darted upward—eager, reverent, tasting not just him, but the power that had passed through him. Her hands ran across her own skin as if in a trance. There was something timeless in her movement—worn, ritualistic. A dance as old as suffering.
Another wave broke. This time across her chest, a holy anointing drawn in silence. The liquid traced glistening paths down her breasts, pooling in the hollow of her collarbone like sacrament. Some dripped to the floor, gleaming like molten glass.
"Ooz."
The sound wasn't human.
It was alive.
Wet. Deep. Claiming.
Desmond stood motionless, breath stilled. The echo of that sound didn't fade—it burrowed.
And for the first time in his life, he realized:
He was no longer the only one inside this moment.
Something else was here.
Watching.
Feeding.
Waiting.