The Blood Moon is ripe upon us and the hunters hear the call. The beast within yearns to break free and chase and prey and lust. My prey though hides within the trees of ancient down the river. I shall avenge this missed hunt for her so rare compliance. And she will beg for retribution, don’t deny it. Though every time she flees.
She flees from truth again until it seizes her so savage, that it consumes her feathered heart and soul and mind entire. It will sneak at her with thirst and chase long after she has fallen into the lustful claw’s demand that craves to claim her flesh. It will trap her in the softest way, then fiercely catch her breath. With bites so fervently that she will beg for retribution, don’t deny it. Though every time she fights.
She fights the beast that’s after her much longer than she knows. A beast submissive to a wish that she will not admit. The Blood Moon will force out of her desires never spelled. And so turns into beastly charm the prey itself relieved. The feathered heart and soul and mind grow fur and claws and tail. And to his huntress, now revealed, he will beg for retribution, don’t deny it. Though every time he smiles.
He smiles, pierced by her lovely claw and bitten by her wrath about the fact that she’d been slain with the most cunning blade of all. The daring and insistent blade of compulsive desire, with which he pierced his way before in regions oh so deep. He pierced not once; he pierced not twice and while she bites he’s piercing on. And with ecstatic lust unleashed, he will beg for retribution, don’t deny it. Though every time he waits.
He waits, observes while being slain with lustful songs of truce. He’ll wait until her final chord, then tune another. A chord of sweetest pleasure which will burst in wild eruption through both their flesh and voice. Slain by each other’s beast inside, the hunt will reach its peak. And his huntress in the sanguine night will die the most affectionate of deaths, begging for retribution. Don’t deny it.
The stern sword at your delicate hand