Read Part 1
This is Normally Behind a Paywall
SMUT isn’t free. It’s raw. It’s paid content for a reason. But every now and then, we let one drip past the wall.
Don’t treat it like a freebie. Treat it like a leak.
The Drifter is no saviour. He is a shapeshifter, a hunger in human form, drawn to the fantasies you never dared speak. He’ll wear the body you crave most, give you everything you’ve buried, then feed on the silence after. But he is never alone. Outside every room waits Eidolon, his car, his keeper, his mouth of chrome and leather. By the time you see the truth, it is already too late.
He is gone, carried off by her humming engine to the next dark room, the next unspoken desire.
The motorway had coughed them out at dusk, a sick car with a hot bonnet and a smell of burnt rubber. The tow truck left them at a roadside motel with a plastic fountain and a sign that blinked between two dead letters. The clerk sent them to the bridal suite with a key on a chipped heart. “Congratulations,” he said, without looking up.
Inside, the room was all beige optimism. A silk runner on the bed, towels folded into swans, a whirlpool bath that wheezed when tested. Someone had scattered fake rose petals that clung to the carpet with static. She laughed and picked one off her heel. He set their bags down and kissed her forehead. They were young, tired, newly tied to each other and to the strange feeling that something was missing, not from their love, but from the way it wanted to move. They had spent months being good, earning this night with careful smiles and tender discipline. The motorway had other ideas.
They ordered chips and a wine cooler from the vending machine. They took turns in the bath and pretended it worked. She sat on the end of the bed in a towel, hair wet on her shoulders, and stared at the door. He watched her in the mirror, the slow way she breathed, the restless hands. He knew that look. He wore it too.
The Drifter could feel them from the car park. Hunger moves before light. It calls without sound, a rope under the ribs. He sat in the driver’s seat and let Eidolon breathe. Leather creaked, not old, but alive. The dashboard glowed like a patient eye. Headlights rested on the curtains of the far corner room and did not blink.
He listened. In the suite, words had started without names. A woman saying, “I do not know how to ask.” A man saying, “Try.” Back and forth, the soft confession of two people who wanted to move closer by stepping sideways. The Drifter smiled and let the shape come to him, not a face he had chosen, but the one they already wanted. Broad shoulders. A mouth that could be kind or cruel and would be both. The faint smell of petrol and rain. The weight of a man who could lift and carry without struggle.
He crossed the lot. The night tasted of damp tarmac and cheap wine. On the stairs, he ran his fingers along the peeling rail. Paint came away like ash. At the top, the door with the plastic heart. He stood to one side so the peephole would not catch him. He knocked once.
The latch lifted an inch, then stopped. Her eye. His behind it. Silence held a breath. The chain rattled. The door opened.
He did not push inside. He filled the threshold and waited. They looked at him like people look at weather they had dreamed about and never expected to feel on their skin. The towel around her slipped a little. The man’s hand rose to catch it, then dropped. Their mouths moved before their minds caught up.
“You are lost,” she said.
“I can be,” the Drifter said.
He kept his voice low. He let the invitation sit between them like steam.
“Do you want me to leave?”
Silence again. Her gaze fell to his hands, then to the wet line on her collarbone. The man swallowed.
“If you come in,” he said, “we have to choose it.”
“Say it,” the Drifter said. “Both of you.”
She stood straighter, towel still held, eyes bright with fear and relief. “Come in,” she said. “Please.”
“Yes,” the man said. “Come in. We want this.”
The Drifter stepped across the line. He closed the door very gently, as if to bless the decision. He touched nothing else. He did not touch them. He let the room breathe around all three of them until the air turned warm and full.
“Tell me,” he said.
She spoke first. “I want to be taken,” she said, “not with cruelty, with certainty. I want to feel my husband watching. I want him to see me want it.”
The man rubbed his palms on his trousers. “I want to watch,” he said, voice thin. “I want to be made to watch. I want to be told what to do. I want to see her face from the outside and know she is more than mine. I am tired of pretending I do not think about this.”
“Good,” the Drifter said. “You have both told the truth.”
He crossed to her and took the edge of the towel. He waited. She nodded. The towel fell to the carpet like a second skin. Her body kept the drop of water at her collarbone until it slid and lost its shape. He kissed that line. She made a quiet sound and lifted her chin.
The Drifter turned her to face the mirror on the wardrobe door. He placed her palms against the cool glass. He looked over her shoulder at the man.
“You will stand here,” he said. “You will not touch until she asks. You will watch her mouth, her eyes. You will learn the way she opens when she is not trying to be small for you.”
The man came closer and stood where he was told. His hands curled into gentle fists and then uncurled. He breathed like someone arriving at last.
The Drifter’s hands were already where they needed to be. One at her throat, not tightening, only reminding. One at her hip, steadying the tilt of her. He kissed her neck, the place where pulse meets jaw. He ran his mouth down, over collarbone, over the soft of her breast. She pressed her palm harder to the mirror and met his eyes in the glass. It startled her, the ferocity there, the gratitude. She smiled like someone who has confessed and found mercy.
He made her ask for each thing. He opened the drawer, found a hotel bottle of lotion, and slicked his fingers. He lifted her knee onto the bench at the foot of the bed. He guided her back on to him, a slow, careful descent until his breath left him and hers returned. He kept her eyes on the mirror. He put a hand on the small of her back, and when she looked like she might fly apart, he moved that hand lower and showed her how to stay.
Behind them, the husband’s breath went shallow and fast. He tried to be silent and failed. The Drifter caught his gaze and shook his head with one small movement.
“Words,” he said.
“I see her,” the man said, raw. “I see her. She is… God, she is…”
“Say beautiful,” she said. “Say it like you mean it.”
“Beautiful,” he said. Then again, louder, “Beautiful.”
The Drifter smiled against her neck. “Say more.”
“Tell me you love how she opens,” he said to the man. “Tell me you love the way her hips try to run and then come back. Tell me you love the sound she makes that she has kept from you because she was afraid you would not know what to do with it.”
“I love it,” the man said, voice breaking. “I love it, I love that sound. I want it every night. I want it right now.”
He asked her then. “Do you want him to touch you?”
She nodded. “Yes. Fingers in my hair. Keep me here. Make me look at myself.”
The husband reached, trembling, and took a handful of hair, not hard, not timid either. He held her gaze in the mirror while the Drifter worked her open. The room filled with small music, the lotion’s wet slip, the suck of skin on skin, the breath that catches and then lets go. The roses on the carpet looked like blood in bad light.
When she started to shake he slowed her. He made her feel the edge like a line under her toes. He made her step over it with both eyes open. She came with a sob, a beautiful ugly noise that she had kept from herself. She fell forward on to her forearms and cried without shame. The Drifter stayed inside her and softened. He kissed the back of her neck until the crying turned into laughter and she whispered, “I cannot believe we did that.”
The Drifter withdrew, gentle, and helped her climb on to the bed. He tucked the sheet around her hips like a ceremony. He turned to the husband.
“Your turn,” he said.
The man flinched, not from fear, but from the sudden brightness of being seen. He looked at his wife. She nodded, eyes red and shining.
“Let yourself have it,” she said. “Please. I want to watch you too.”
The Drifter stood at the foot of the bed and looked down at his hands. He rolled his shoulders. His skin shifted like a thought. Hair darkened and fell to the same wet curls. Breasts rose and settled. Hips softened, waist drew in, a familiar mole appeared by the left breast. He lifted his face and there she was again, the bride twice, one at rest and one standing, both breathing the same air.
“Oh,” she said softly, hand to her mouth.
The husband made a sound like a prayer. He touched his own chest as if to keep his heart from getting up and leaving. He stepped back without meaning to, small at the foot of the bed.
The Drifter in her shape padded across the carpet and went to his knees. He took the man’s hands and placed them at his sides.
“You do not touch,” he said. “Not unless I ask. You will look at me and you will hear her voice while you come. You will be good.”
The husband nodded, then nodded again like a child who trusts instructions. The Drifter leaned in and pressed his cheek to the man’s thigh. He inhaled like a lover finding the scent of the person they are about to keep. He opened his mouth and took him in with a slow, devout movement that emptied the man of every word but one.
“Please,” the husband said, and then again, “please.”
On the bed, the real bride propped herself on her elbows and watched her own mouth work. She watched the way the Drifter’s hands held her husband’s hips just so, not rough, not timid, steering him away from the old habits that would have made it short and thoughtless. She saw her own eyes look up at her husband with a mischief she had never risked. She reached for her own breasts and cupped them, not coy, full of ownership. She found her clitoris and drew small circles that matched the slow, steady rhythm of the kneeling mouth.
The Drifter used silence like a bridle. He let the man hover at the edge and then step back. He hummed around him and watched the man’s knees try to fold. He drew off and stroked him with one hand while the other pressed two fingers deep into his mouth so he could taste himself before the end. He spoke without raising his voice.
“Tell her what you want,” he said.
“I want you both to see me,” the man said, shaking. “I want you to see me like this. I want to be made small and kept and loved anyway.”
“You are,” the bride said, voice thick and tender. “You are my good man. Come for us.”
The Drifter took him again, opened his throat, and swallowed him until the man could not keep quiet. The husband’s hands dug into the air. He did not touch. He looked at his wife and came with a broken sound that had never found permission before tonight.
Silence after has a weight. The kind that presses you flat and makes your chest feel full of clean air. The Drifter sat back on his heels, still wearing the bride’s body, and rested his forehead against the man’s thigh. He kissed the inside of the knee and stood.
“You did well,” he said to both of them.
He changed back as he walked, shoulders broadening, jaw setting, the scent of petrol returning as if from a cupboard. He pulled the sheet up over the bride properly and smoothed a wet curl from her temple.
“You are not broken,” he said. “You are not wicked. Take what you learned from each other tonight and speak it with your own mouths.”
Tears again, the easy kind. They reached for each other and met in the middle of the bed, tongues salt sweet, hands clumsy and grateful. He left them that way, entwined and shimmering and a little unbelieving.
Out in the car park, the air had cooled. Eidolon had not blinked once. Headlights carved a pale corridor across the balcony rail and held it. The Drifter descended the stairs with the slow ease of a man after prayer. He crossed wet tarmac. The car door opened without his hand. The leather sighed around him when he sat. The seat was warm, warmer than it should have been. He let his head fall back and closed his eyes.
For a moment he waited for the afterglow that usually rose in him after a good feed. It did not come. Instead there was a steady pull from somewhere behind the dashboard, a low drink that did not stop. He placed his palm on the steering wheel. It pulsed under his skin as if taking his pulse for itself.
“Not yet,” he said.
The wheel thrummed once, almost a purr, and settled. Headlights stayed on, bright, possessive, washing the drawn curtains of the bridal suite until the room inside glowed faintly like a promise. The Drifter breathed with the car, slow in, slow out, and felt a small, sensible fear turn over and look at him.
He started the engine. The fountain coughed. A moth rattled against the glass. Up in the suite, the newlyweds laughed into each other’s mouths and cried again, and held, and did not let go. The Drifter put the car in gear and did not move. He watched the door without knowing why.
Eidolon watched too. The lights did not dim. The night stretched. The hunger in him did not quieten, it thinned, as if something else were feeding where he could not reach.
“Good girl,” he said at last, a habit he could not place. The indicator clicked without his touch, a little metronome that did not match his heartbeat. He smiled, tired and unsure, and let the engine idle. Somewhere down the road, something turned its face toward him. He felt it, a new ache lifting its head. He stayed until the bridal suite went dark, then eased the car out and back on to the road, both of them awake, both of them wanting.
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This is a deep, thought provoking piece of writing. It's guidance and encouragement. Taking ownership of your own desires x