Dripping for the Devil’s Boys

They stalked her. They claimed her. They never took off their masks.

The bass from the club is still a phantom pulse still pumping through my nervous system, a relentless drumbeat synced to the savage rhythm of my own heart. The taxi ride is a blur of stolen, shadow-drenched streets and her scent, jasmine and wicked promise, filling the space between us. She is nestled between Marc and Ben, a prize we’ve hunted for a month, and is finally in our grasp. Her head lolls back against Marc’s shoulder, her eyes, heavy-lidded and dark with a want she can’t yet name, flicker to each of us. To the masks that hide our faces but reveal our intentions in every stark, possessive move.

We’ve watched her for weeks. We know the curve of her smile, the way she tucks her black hair behind her ear when she’s concentrating, the subtle, witchy symbols inked on her skin… a crescent moon on the delicate inside of her wrist and a twisting serpent around her ankle. We know she moves through the world with a quiet, magnetic power, but has no idea the kind of dark devotion she inspires in us. And we know, from a social media confession on somebody else’s page, that she has a thing for masks. For the anonymity. For the delicious terror of not quite knowing who is touching you.

Halloween is our invitation. Our permission.

The dance floor was our opening ritual. We’d circled her like three predators in the throbbing dark, the strobe lights carving out our muscular forms. That was her fantasy, and tonight we are going to bring it to life. We’d closed in on her on the dance floor, hips grinding against the soft swell of her ass, a hard chest against her back, and a strong hand splayed on her flat, trembling stomach. She hadn’t pushed away. She’d melted, her body answering a call her mind was still deciphering. We felt the shiver that worked it’s up her frame, heard the tiny, broken gasp when Ben’s masked lips brushed the shell of her ear. We knew.

Now, in the stark, modern silence of Ben’s apartment, the real ceremony begins.

We sit her on the edge of the deep charcoal couch, a stark contrast to the pale, flawless canvas of her skin. We step back, a united front of muscle and menace and barely-leashed hunger. She is breathing fast, her chest rising and falling in a rapid, mesmerizing rhythm beneath the tight black fabric of her costume. Her witchy vibe is more intense here, away from the crowd; it’s in the slight smirk playing on her full, red-stained lips, in the ancient gaze of her dark eyes, and in the way her tattoos seem to writhe on her skin with a life of their own.

She is perfection. A fallen angel we’ve caught in our collective hands.

My cock is a brutal, aching weight against the fly of my jeans, a prisoner demanding release. The air is charged and thick with the scent of her perfume, our cologne, and the raw, animal musk of anticipation.

My voice, when it comes, is a low, graveled thing, distorted and deepened by the mask, by the need clawing its way up my throat. “What are you waiting for, Kitty? Show us.”