Le Petit Mort (fiction)

(For Carrie, who never accepts my lame excuses for not writing. I love you.)

The rain didn’t drizzle or drip or even come down in sheets or buckets. The storm could’ve been a light sprinkling of air, so much water fell from the angry, swollen sky. The noise of rain pelting the loose shingles of the roof overshadowed the screams.

“Louder,” Nelson growled.

He cocked an arm back and swung forward, connecting with an open palm. The crack of flesh on flesh echoed over the rage of Mother Nature.

“Fucking bitch,” he muttered. His eyes drifted through the storm, as grey as the weather, dancing between raindrops, never damp, but always humid and harried.

With a single long grunt, and still staring through the storm as if it owned him, or perhaps he it, Nelson came. He spurted useless seed into a nameless body cavity, tugging the chain looped through itself as his body suffered <i>le petit mort</i>. The collar tightened and the screams of pain and pleasure climaxed in a gurgle that scented the air with fear.

Terror spiced the scent of ozone as lightning cursed the sky and a rumble of thunder competed with the cacophony of the downpour. Nearby a tree cracked. It’s bare branches scratched the lightless day as it teetered on threads of exposed innards before crashing across outstretched arms of two ken, shredding those neighbors as panic gave way to defeat behind weathered glassy eyes.

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