* I can't continue not to do myself as an artist, ] hope [
The sun never rose that morning, only seeped across the city in sick grey streaks, leaking into the world like pus from an old wound. I found her curled up in a rusted clawfoot tub in a condemned tenement, naked and shivering, cigarette ash scattered like funeral dust across her thighs.
She looked up at me with eyes so hollow they felt like open graves.
“Close the door,” she rasped, her voice brittle with exhaustion and feral want. “And bring the black paint, not the aerosol.”
The walls were covered in peeling lead paint, the smell of decay and mold thick enough to burn the back of my throat. I knelt beside the tub, pulling out the chipped jar of black enamel from my coat pocket. She smiled then, slow and mean, her lips cracked and bleeding.
“Write the gospel,” she whispered, spreading her thighs wide, cunt glistening with slick and blood where she’d cut herself earlier, thin crimson rivulets running down to her knees.
I dipped my fingers into the paint, the chemical reek mingling with her feral musk until I tasted lead and turpentine on the back of my tongue. I painted words across her stomach, her ribs, her throat, words older than god, older than guilt, dripping down her skin in trembling black trails.
“Louder,” she snarled as I whispered the words under my breath, her back arching against the cold porcelain, nipples tightening to purpled peaks as she ground her ass against the rusted tub floor. “Preach it.”
I spoke louder, fingers trembling as I wrote the final verse down the inside of her thigh. She grabbed my wrist then, smearing paint across her skin as she pulled my fingers to her mouth, sucking the enamel clean with savage devotion.
“Taste me,” she gasped, pushing my hand between her thighs.
I slid two fingers into her cunt, feeling her walls clench around me like a dying prayer. Her taste was thick and feral, blood and salt and urban decay sweetness clinging to my skin as I curled my fingers inside her, feeling the slick heat tremble and tighten with each ragged breath.
She moaned low in her chest, reaching up to grab the back of my neck and pull my mouth to hers. She kissed me with savage hunger, biting my lower lip so hard it split open, blood dripping down into her mouth as she moaned and licked it up with trembling reverence.
“This is scripture,” she snarled against my lips. “Your blood. My cunt. Our Decay.”
She shoved me back against the cracked tile wall, crawling out of the tub with trembling thighs, black paint smearing across her skin in savage calligraphy.
She straddled my lap, grabbing my cock and sinking onto it in one brutal thrust. Her cunt clenched around me so tight I gasped, vision fracturing into static as she began to ride me with slow, deliberate rolls of her hips.
Each grind smeared paint and blood across my chest, her breasts leaving streaks of black enamel and dried tears down my ribs. The smell of her sweat mixed with the chemical reek of paint and the deep feral musk of her ruin, flooding my lungs until all I could taste was her.
She leaned forward, licking the blood from my lips as her cunt clenched harder around me, her breath hot and ragged against my face.
“Cum in me,” she snarled, nails digging into my shoulders until hot blood welled up around her fingertips. “Fill me with your gospel.”
I came inside her with a howl that echoed off the tile walls, my cock pulsing deep in her cunt as she screamed my name, her own orgasm ripping through her with violent tremors that left her gasping and sobbing against my chest.
She stayed straddled over me, trembling, cunt still gripping me tight as she pressed her mouth to my ear.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered, voice trembling with feral devotion and something dangerously close to love, “we write the final testament.”
She kissed me then, slow and deep, tasting of blood, urban decay, and unholy forgiveness as dawn leaked across the broken windows, illuminating us in sick grey light two feral saints bound in ruin, worship, and the gospel of their own filth.
- m y t h o s
