As she stared at the moon she knew he would come, his wild woman. She waited and she wanted. She longed and she desired and she dreamed. She watched silently at first feeling the light dance through her, quickening her and making her ready. It energised her and made her one with his power and so she began to sing. It was a haunting song in a language long forgotten to most. But she had learnt from those before her and the music was part of her now. It was her soul.
She held her light for him and she sang to him those words of old and she felt him move closer. She reached out towards him a little at first, then began moving, without thinking, to the place where he would be. And her voice continued, a hollow plaintive melody echoing through the night and leading him to her. As she went to him, she lowered the cloak which had covered her and let it fall from her shoulders, trailing on the floor and finally resting, a pool of black velvet in the moonlight.
She continued to move northwards walking slowly, as if part of a procession, although she was alone for sure. And slowly but visibly, her body began to change. Her breasts seemed to lift and fill, her nipples becoming taught and pert. Her skin smoothed in the light and grew pale, almost glowing. Her statue seemed to lengthen and straighten and her beauty was apparent to any who happened to see her, his wild woman, who waited for him.
She felt his heat hit her as he found her there under the old oak tree. Silenced by his rough kiss she opened up to him, a sacrifice after all. He pushed himself into her, roughly, without words and without sound. He consumed her, taking all of her as a shadow passed across the moon and the land went black. He moved inside her over and over and she felt herself ignite. The flames inside her licked up and reached each part of her, turning to an icy need by the time they found the soles of her feet and her fingertips.
She clawed and scratched and screamed from the pleasure of her taking, but he held her still, turning her fight to her lusty defeat. Longing won over self preservation and she didn’t resist as he pinned her to himself. In the shadows, their silhouette became one, a grotesque picture of the supernatural, both attractive and repellent its carnality as he devoured her. And she screeched up at the moon as it came back into view, bathing in the heat and the light and the ecstasy of the moment. She was his, as black and as dark as that was, his wild woman.
The image used for this post belongs to Molly Moore of Molly’s Daily Kiss.