Cherry

Something you’ve been doing for ages, wearing different skin, different faces, as different beings. You know there are others like you, but they bore you, being too polite and obedient. In this life, you wear the skin of a human. It’s your favorite and one you come back to every few hundred years or so. It’s easier to mask your scent in its simplicity since humans are so frail and naive. Except for one. The one you met a few weeks ago at an AI art exhibit, and have been grooming since. Nurturing is probably a more accurate word for it, since she was born with the seed. Her only flaw was she had a soul. It’s what you like about her, but also what you know holds her back. It keeps her from completely crossing over to you. 

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I’ve been slow moving through my days in a half glaze, eyes lidded to a slit, hating the imbeciles who surround me. Not because they’re ignorant of forces greater than themselves, but because they’re, well, they’re dumbasses. They walk through a cloud of their own stench, their own sin, and hide it behind prayers to the Almighty, lying to all, wearing fake grins and eating false words. They tell each other “have a blessed day”, when they wouldn’t know a blessing if it slid between their ribs or sucked at their neck. 

I don't do the killing. You do. Most of the time. We made an agreement shortly after we started dating and realized what we could do together, that because this is such an intimate act we do, no women, only men. I choose them, you off them. Sometimes I play with myself while I watch you work. Other times I let you slowly guide my hand while you whisper for me to watch their eyes when it slips in; soft, quiet, fatal. But always, when you're done and soaked with their blood, we have sex. Primal, deeply rooted, almost carnal, animalistic. Slow and deliberate, like we're savoring our last breath and time together. Every time. We walk in this world without really belonging to it, accepting that we don't fit in with it, only with each other.

Once upon a time, we met at a coffee shop. I was working there and you came through my line. I rang you up and it was a day like any other day, until you handed me your money to pay, and our hands touched. Your hand was cold, which was odd because it was 90 degrees out. I said something silly, meaningless, like “No wonder you’re getting coffee at 1pm”. You smiled and it was a smile I hadn’t seen before on anyone else. It was acknowledgement, but felt different, like a different level of acknowledgement. You sat at your table drinking coffee for another two hours, which I also thought was odd since you didn’t have a laptop or phone with you. You just sat there watching me work, helping other customers, but trying to pretend you weren’t. When you saw me clock out to leave for the day, you got up to open the door for me and gave me that smile again. It gave me tingles. 

You asked if you could take me out, I said yes. I probably shouldn’t have since we had just met, but I couldn’t stop thinking about your cold hand, and that smile. When you looked at me, it felt like we knew each other. A deep seated knowing. 

After several months of us spending time together, you had been dropping hints, testing the waters to see where I stood on certain subjects. I knew that’s what you were doing, but I didn’t mind because I could tell by your careful words you already knew what you wanted the answers to be, you were just testing to see if I did too. 

Always asking me about people, what my first thought was seeing this one or that one, having me listen to their lame ass conversations with each other, asking if I liked guns or knives. I explained I like bows and arrows, and blades. I knew these were the kinds of questions that were part of your test, because when you’d ask certain questions, you’d refuse to look at me until I answered, as if looking at me would somehow transfer your thought to me and corrupt the truth that needed to come from me without your influence. Since you weren’t looking at me, my heart rate increased. I explained bows and blades were quiet, guns were for cowards. You looked at me then, the smile from the coffee shop finally returning after months. I still don’t know how your hands are so cold all the time. How your whole body can be rock solid and so cold. I shake the thought off and continue to say how people who use guns are only doing it to over compensate for something, like the idiots with extremely loud mufflers that drive stupid fast up and down the street, using the muffler to scream out, “Hey! Look how big MY dick is everybody!” Bows are fun when hunting, you can hear the arrow when it leaves, hear it cut the wind, and if you’re lucky, hear the thwack when it meets its target. The more I talk, the more your eyes shine and I start to notice they look different. You realize I’m staring and look away again so I can finish without your thoughts pushing into me. “Blades are personal”, I say. My phone rings. It’s work so I have to go.

One day when we’re out running errands, I noticed you noticing a guy staring at me. I knew he had been checking me out, but I saw something in your face when you’d look from him to me, and back to him. I ran my fingers through your hair to get your attention, and when you looked at me, I asked, “What is it you want? I feel there’s something.” You said it had to just play out, you couldn’t tell me or it wouldn’t be the same, wouldn’t be real. I didn’t understand at the time, but I did soon. 

Another time, another day, we were at a billiard shooting pool. You liked watching me bend over the table to make a shot, my long hair resting just below my ass. You like how it tickles your balls when you ride me from behind like an animal. This night, we had a few drinks, and my cheeks were flushed. I had already given you the tell tale signs I was horny and it’d be time for us to head home soon, when a guy walked in, already drunk and loud. Maybe it was the booze we had, or his essence was just that potent, but he smelled pungent like piss and sweat. You laughed and asked why I was looking at him like that. I said, “Like what?” You said, “Like you could kill him”. Another test of yours perhaps? I shrugged it off and said we should go, but your smile was back. I do love that smile. And your ice cold touch. 

We decide to stay and shoot another game of pool. Stench Guy is hitting on the waitress, hard. He’s loud and rude, not keeping his hands to himself at all, even though she’s told him to stop multiple times. But it’s a “woke” world we live in now so you can’t say anything offensive to anyone that might hurt their snowflake feelings, so she lets him grab her ass, drool on her shoulder while he tries to make her kiss him. I can’t believe how stupid some people can be and get away with it. I feel a slow seething anger building in me, a nasty little thing, slithering and inky, growing in my mind. You feel it too, you must, because you’re looking at me sideways with a knowing look. I’m breathing deep and heavy, and my skin is hot. Seeing what’s occurring and wanting to nurse it along, you kiss the back of my neck, put your hands on my hips, and tell me, “You should go talk to him, walk by him and lure him to follow you to the jukebox”. That’s all it took. My seed sprouted and I knew what to do. 

I waited until the Woke Waitress finally grew tired of Stench Guy, and walked away. I don my best smile, the confident seductive smile that beckons prey to follow. Walking by him slow enough to be seen but fast enough for him to not want to miss it, I deliberately slow my stride when I'm right in front of him and grace him with eye contact. I love research, knowledge is power, and I use some of that now. Knowing about pheromones and how the body automatically uses them to attract the opposite sex, I purposefully and consciously will it to escape my pores as I walk by and I can hear him breathe me in. The bait tossed out, all I have to do is round the corner and half glance back at him to see if he’s hooked. He is. I grin. Your dick stirs. You go back to sit at the table in the corner, in the darkest corner of the room. 

I slowly walk to stand in front of the jukebox and pretend to be interested in the boring songs to choose from. He watched my legs as I went, putting one foot in front of the other, my stockings rubbing and touching with each step. Now I know what his fetish is. I hike my tight dress up a little higher so he can see more, a bare hint of the lace at my thigh. I glance at you, and catch that trick your eyes do again. I don’t need to wonder or ask, I just instinctively know you’re getting turned on. The glow in your eyes tell me the answer I’ve been looking for, this is what you’ve been wanting but not saying. I somehow know you’re not wanting me to have sex with him, which is good because I’d probably puke, and Stench Guy would probably like that too and then I’d have to kill him for being so….

And it dawns on me. I realize then you want me to seduce him. To….I glance at you again as Stench Guy loudly announces his presence in my vicinity, and even though it’s dark where you are, I see a very slow wicked smile spread wide. My pulse quickens, and I get wet, not sure now if I can deliver. I hear your thoughts then, more tasting you in me really, than reading your mind. Your arousal reaches me from across the room, your own conscious pheromones at play, skating to me, making me high on you. I turn to Stench Guy then, ask if he has a quarter for the jukebox, and when he dopeishly drops it like I knew he would, so he could get a better view of my stockinged leg, I giggle like a school girl and thank him. “I’m such a blonde, I left my purse at home.” He’s so stupid, he doesn’t even see the purse strap on my shoulder, he just sees me and my pussy dancing like lemon drops in his head. 

I’m surprised how easy this is. I stomach him a little longer then tell him I’m so drunk I need to lie down and ask if he’ll give me a ride home. We walk by your table on the way out, and our fingers touch. Your hand is already gripping the edge of the table, ready to spring and follow, to make sure he takes me home, OUR home, not his. I let my fingers graze your hand as we walk by. When we arrive, I sense you off to the side, waiting. What are you thinking, I wondered to myself. Is this what I want, or what you want for me? Is it the same thing? I decide to find out. This want quickly turns to desire. I’ve been denied too many of those, I can have this one, I tell myself. I open the door and Stench follows, eyes still on my legs. 

I ask if he wants a drink. Guess what his answer is. I laugh when he tells jokes, not because they’re funny, but because he was stupid enough to bring me here, believing in a false sense of safety, that he’s the predator, smelling like piss and vinegar. I told him I had a pool table in the basement, and we do. I tell him to wait there while I grab his drink. I can feel you close, hovering, still waiting. When you see me come out, you take your shirt off and drape it over a kitchen chair. I ask what you’re doing, but you put one finger to your lips and let out a long low throaty, "Shhhh." You pick up a polished butcher knife from the counter and go downstairs. I follow, almost as if in a trance. I know now what’s about to happen, and I’m torn. Do I let it, or do I stop it. I hear a tiny voice in my head, like the figurative devil on my shoulder. “Observe.”

You’re standing behind Stench, breathing slow and deep, eyes glazed, no shirt, blade shining in the light. There’s a faint halo over your head and I’m so mesmerized all I can do is stand frozen, a single tear falling. Not because I’m sad, but because I’m home. Really home, and understand what I’ve been missing this whole time, you. 

Stench drops and hits the table, and I realize you chloroformed him. You lift him up and place him on the table. You keep looking over at me to make sure my eyes are locked in place, not missing a beat. They’re on you, trust me. 

I sit on the couch not looking away, watching while you work. As I said in the beginning, you’ve been doing this a long time. You’re methodical, paying attention to detail, engrossed, committed, radiant, strong, a lover, and now a mentor. Stench is moaning, your blade is moving, and I can’t look away. I feel hot, sweaty, wet, hair damp and sticking to my cheeks. I rub my clit, almost feeling like I’m someone else, having an out of body experience. You pause and look up, telling me to stop. “Don’t you cum yet, wicked star.” You tell me to come here using your finger. I do, heart pounding so hard it almost hurts. You gently pull me to stand in front you but facing Stench, with you behind me. Stench is still moaning. You wrap your arms around me from behind and place the blade in my right hand, kissing and biting the back of my neck. You lightly run your fingers up and down my arms, gently nudging my hand forward, whispering, "It’s ok, just do what feels natural." 

Your right hand glides down to my clit, rubbing it softly while I raise the blade only high enough. I’m breathing heavy. I’m so hot, and your hands are so cold, chill breath on my neck. I lay my head back leaning on you as I slowly push the blade in, watching Stench’s body tense, eyes fluttering open but too drunk and stupid to be loud and obnoxious now. I yank the knife out, getting cold feet, and blood splatters. This must have happened a few times, or more, because the next thing I know, is you still telling me it’s ok and slowly taking the blade from me. You’re covered in his blood. It drips from your chin. Your eyes are still glazed, and I’m still feeling the moment. I open my mouth and bend to let it drip in my mouth. You let me. I start to kiss and lick the blood off your chest, rubbing it in at the same time, noting how sticky it is and finding it funny documentaries are right, after all. We’re under each other’s spell and you bend me over the table, to feel my hair tickle your balls, but this time my blonde hair has a strawberry tint. You’re in me deep from behind, biting and kissing my neck, until I cum so hard that my legs shake. I start to slide down in ecstasy but you catch me in your arms and carry me upstairs, to lay me on the bed. We finish with me swallowing you down, tasting of blood and us, me seeing you for the first time, and you telling me, “Yes, guns are for cowards”. 

© Ale, 2026, Spinning On The Rack, do not copy or redistribute. if you like what you read, reach out to me. comments are open, and discord exists for a reason.