Taste of Blood




Bathed in blood was your preferred way to let Her take you. Your profane worship finished, your divine slaughter completed; now only the Reward remained, and what a reward it was.

Your rage was subsumed with lust and need and ecstasy and bliss as She filled you, deeper than any bullet or blade could ever hope to, as the screams of the battlefield slowly gave way in your mind to your own shrieks of pleasure.

“That’s my good fucking weapon,” She hissed into your ear, pulling you down and still despite your ever-needy bucking against Her hips.

“You worship me so fucking well, don’t you? Look at this,”

She purred to you, guiding your blood-soaked hands over Her breasts – decorating them with evidence of your victory. Of your devotion. “Come taste of me, my sweet.”

The salty sweetness of Her sweat mixed with the acrid metal taste of blood was enough to drive you over the edge. She didn’t stop, of course, simply fucking through your clawing and trembling and shrieking, all while murmuring praise in your ear.

It would be a few hours before the regulars found the two of you. By then, you were simply a bloody, drooling mess in Her lap, enjoying soft pets. By the morning you’d both be recomposed and proper, all tidy and well put-together for the brass.

The only one who was able to see this side of you and live was Her. You’d sworn that pact decades ago.

You only served Her, only gave your all to Her.

The rest of the planet be damned.