The Feast
Joanna Benitez
The Beast hungers. The castle casts creeping shadows over the Beast’s immaculate dark pelt as he steps into a world of white cold. He inhales deeply, fills his lungs with ice shards. It is then that he smells it, the sweet sweet call.
Roaring he runs. His paws sink into the virgin snow. Red on white is what the Beast comes to. He stops, stoops, and presses his nose to the red impression; his heavy breath melts the snow. His nose––wide and flat––ever so sensitive to smell.
He runs. Harder. Harder still, until his heart sings. He follows the living red trail through trees, through time. Then and there he stops. And there, by his paws, the blood trail ends upon a pair of translucent feet.
The feet, delicate and pink, are topped with dark nails hidden by white snow.
The young girl stands naked.
Unhindered, the Beast’s eyes devour.
He takes in the curtain of wild hair, chestnut in color; the slanted black eyes; the smirking dark crimson lips; the delicately veined neck which he is partial to; and the pert yet small breasts. The Beast is especially fond of the nipples. Red nipples that are perfectly puckered with plump areolae.
Cocking his head to the side the Beast meticulously counts the bumps within the girl’s areolae. The girl’s nipples harden in front of him; the bumps are harder to count. The Beast shivers in delight.
Then there is the blood. The Beast’s yellow eyes follow the red trail streaking down the girl’s thighs.
Drop. Drop.
Drop.
He follows the blood trail up her legs, the source her untried folds.
The Beast listens to the blood, uses his sixth sense. The blood sings to him, lures him, seduces him.
The Beast’s rough tongue runs over his black wet lips. He is powerless. Purring and growling he extends a claw–tipped hand. The girl instantly takes it; grips it; sinks her own nails in. Her blade–like nails are strong; they draw blood. Triumph twinkles in the girl’s eye but it is unseen.
Lifting her up effortlessly by the waist the Beast lays her on the fresh snow.
She is cold and so she pulls at the Beast’s mane. The Beast comes to her; brings her his heat. He kisses her, his sharpened teeth shredding her lips. He molds her breasts and her stiff nipples poke his palms.
She grips his fur; pulls and arches against him.
Desperate. Hungry.
Spreading her tender thighs, the Beast presses his lips to her core; she is red inside. She is like a rose there. A red rose. “Belle, my Belle,” the Beast chants. He tastes life. Tastes death on his tongue.
Kissing. Licking. Sucking. Biting. Penetrating.
The girl’s muscled strength maneuvers the Beast’s mouth between her thighs until she is satisfied. The Beast smiles; his lips are coated in blood.
Rising she brings the Beast’s head to her, savagely trusts her stiffened tongue into the Beast. She holds him there. Her claw-tipped nails sink into the Beast’s thick neck.
Down fall three drops. Down fall the Beast’s blood.
Grinning, the girl uses her teeth, sinks her fangs into the Beast’s tongue. She explodes; rose petals drift and fall around the Beast.
The Beast looks up as his nostrils flare around the sweet call of roses. They are his favorite. The Beast especially loves the bleeding rose that is Belle, his Belle.
Nothing is left of the girl. Only a numb tongue, rose petals, and the small pool of red on white remain; like the fresh kill of a wild animal.
Absolute. Red. Winter.
Joanna Benitez
The Beast hungers. The castle casts creeping shadows over the Beast’s immaculate dark pelt as he steps into a world of white cold. He inhales deeply, fills his lungs with ice shards. It is then that he smells it, the sweet sweet call.
Roaring he runs. His paws sink into the virgin snow. Red on white is what the Beast comes to. He stops, stoops, and presses his nose to the red impression; his heavy breath melts the snow. His nose––wide and flat––ever so sensitive to smell.
He runs. Harder. Harder still, until his heart sings. He follows the living red trail through trees, through time. Then and there he stops. And there, by his paws, the blood trail ends upon a pair of translucent feet.
The feet, delicate and pink, are topped with dark nails hidden by white snow.
The young girl stands naked.
Unhindered, the Beast’s eyes devour.
He takes in the curtain of wild hair, chestnut in color; the slanted black eyes; the smirking dark crimson lips; the delicately veined neck which he is partial to; and the pert yet small breasts. The Beast is especially fond of the nipples. Red nipples that are perfectly puckered with plump areolae.
Cocking his head to the side the Beast meticulously counts the bumps within the girl’s areolae. The girl’s nipples harden in front of him; the bumps are harder to count. The Beast shivers in delight.
Then there is the blood. The Beast’s yellow eyes follow the red trail streaking down the girl’s thighs.
Drop. Drop.
Drop.
He follows the blood trail up her legs, the source her untried folds.
The Beast listens to the blood, uses his sixth sense. The blood sings to him, lures him, seduces him.
The Beast’s rough tongue runs over his black wet lips. He is powerless. Purring and growling he extends a claw–tipped hand. The girl instantly takes it; grips it; sinks her own nails in. Her blade–like nails are strong; they draw blood. Triumph twinkles in the girl’s eye but it is unseen.
Lifting her up effortlessly by the waist the Beast lays her on the fresh snow.
She is cold and so she pulls at the Beast’s mane. The Beast comes to her; brings her his heat. He kisses her, his sharpened teeth shredding her lips. He molds her breasts and her stiff nipples poke his palms.
She grips his fur; pulls and arches against him.
Desperate. Hungry.
Spreading her tender thighs, the Beast presses his lips to her core; she is red inside. She is like a rose there. A red rose. “Belle, my Belle,” the Beast chants. He tastes life. Tastes death on his tongue.
Kissing. Licking. Sucking. Biting. Penetrating.
The girl’s muscled strength maneuvers the Beast’s mouth between her thighs until she is satisfied. The Beast smiles; his lips are coated in blood.
Rising she brings the Beast’s head to her, savagely trusts her stiffened tongue into the Beast. She holds him there. Her claw-tipped nails sink into the Beast’s thick neck.
Down fall three drops. Down fall the Beast’s blood.
Grinning, the girl uses her teeth, sinks her fangs into the Beast’s tongue. She explodes; rose petals drift and fall around the Beast.
The Beast looks up as his nostrils flare around the sweet call of roses. They are his favorite. The Beast especially loves the bleeding rose that is Belle, his Belle.
Nothing is left of the girl. Only a numb tongue, rose petals, and the small pool of red on white remain; like the fresh kill of a wild animal.
Absolute. Red. Winter.
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Joanna Benitez is a Salvadorian-American born and raised in Los Angeles, California. A lover of folklore, mythology, and fairytale Joanna Benitez’s fiction tends to revolve around these sub-genres. A focus is given to her own Salvadorian folklore. Joanna’s stories have appeared in the Northridge Review, Zimbell House Publishing’s Dark Monsters Anthology, and Bibliotheca Alexandrina’s Les Cabinet des Polythéistes: An Anthology of Pagan Fairy Tales, Fables, and Nursery Rhymes. |
