Fungal Halo

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Your Pet Angel

Your angel is so sweet, so pliant, with her collar around her neck. Such a wonderfully docile creature since you learned how to leash her more firmly than even her halo.

The defiant warrior swinging her flaming sword is long, long gone now.

You almost can’t even remember what she used to be like. The image of her you enjoy now is everything: a kneeling servant reflexively sucking on the fingers—and anything else—you push into her mouth.

Her halo is long gone. You savor the memory of shattering it.

You made her beg for it first.

There are few things more delicious than seeing a desperate angel on her hands and knees pushing her halo into your hands, begging for you to destroy what made her feel special and powerful.

The only compulsions she wanted to feel were yours.

You ran your hands over the glowing ring over her head, drawing a shudder from her body. She whimpered as you took your time grasping it firmly in both hands. It was hot to the touch—not the heat of divine flame, but like sun-soaked stone on a summer day—and it did not burn.

You slowly applied pressure. It flexed and strained and resisted. Her whimpers became whines became a wild scream that was music to your ears.

And then it gave, all at once, shattering in an explosion of shards, and she slumped into a drooling, sloppy mess at your feet.

You still have the shards, of course. They make such sharp reminders of what she lost when she became yours.

They slice your hands fiercely when you handle them, but they damage your pet even more when you plunge them, one at a time, through your angel’s flesh.

Sometimes you just need to hear her scream for you again. She does. Each and every time you pierce her body with what once protected her, she does.

It is a song worth bleeding for. With blood-slick hands you grab another shard and pierce her again.

And another.

And another.

Her pleading eyes and her trembling lips while she begs for mercy…ah! She never looks more beautiful than she does in these moments.

You cup her cheek and kiss her softly, gently. The lacerations sting so sweetly in your palms and fingers as your touch anoints her in red.

Your angel kisses you back with such devotion you fall in love with her all over again.

The jagged ends of halo shards protruding from each wound part your skin with an eagerness to match how you press yourself against her body. Your wounds kiss hers like your lips kiss hers.

Her crimson rivulets tempt you, and you give in, extending your tongue to catch a drop rolling down her arm from her shoulder.

It’s just blood, but there is something deliciously perverse about knowing the taste of an angel’s.

You dangle your slashed fingers just out of reach of her mouth, dripping red just past her outstretched tongue, teasing her as she strains upward, open mouthed, trying to know your taste the way you now know hers.

You make her beg for the satisfaction, but not for too long.

You are far too enamored with the delight of twisting an angel so far around she yearns for the taste of your blood, and with pleasure you plunge your fingers into her mouth.

Her tongue teases open the gashes she finds, and the noises you make are not so different from hers.

You whimper and whine like she does while your fingers fuck her mouth and her tongue fucks the injuries you gave yourself wounding her.

You grind yourself against her, both of you tearing a little more with each movement, and you pant with ragged desire.

Just as hungry as you, she bites down hard as your pain rises to a crescendo. You scream, your body convulsing, twisting, aggravating several of the embedded shards to draw a strangled cry of agony from your angel.

You both sob in each other’s arms for a long while.