Blood on the Dancefloor

It’s your last trick of the night.  You’re face down in the sheets, wrists held down by a pair of meaty, clawed hands while an enormous demon dick plows you senseless.  He’d started things off strangely maudlin, grabbing your hand, running his fingers through your hair.  Tried kissing you around his gigantic, silly tusks.  He was drunk and probably doing what he thought a human would.  You wasted no time fishing his massive cock out of his pants and going to work.  Ordinarily he’d be exactly the type of john you like: burly yet oddly sensitive, but it’s been a long night.  At the moment you’re ready to towel off, head downstairs for a margarita and a pint of O negative, flirt with the bartender, then crawl into bed (possibly with one of the other whores) for a solid day’s sleep as the first searing rays of the sun creep out from behind the skyline.

The pulse of the music and the bestial thumping of the bed are loud enough that you don’t hear the door open behind you

They aren’t loud enough to cover up the boom of the shotgun, or the spray of warm blood that drenches your back.

You turn, panicked, just in time for the enormous red bulk of the Patriarch to topple forward, pinning you to the bed.  You scream, unable to get out from under the massive, now-headless body.  Is it the Kingz?  The Dredged?  Have the mortals found you out?

A skeletal figure glides into view on a pair of spindly legs, extending from under a thick, heavy coat.

The Reaper

You can’t move.  You can’t breathe (you couldn’t even if you wanted to).  If you could you’d piss yourself.

The skeleton walks across the room to the painting on the wall, takes it down to reveal a hidden safe.  He leans the SPAS against the wall and goes to work on the combination.  You imagine you can hear the tiny gears turning over the thud of the bass, still seeping through the walls.  The dead demon’s cock is still stiff inside you, it hasn’t gone soft yet.  Against all sense or dignity you contemplate rutting against it.  If you’re going to die it would be nice to finish getting off first.

The safe swings open.  The Reaper reaches inside to pull something out.  In the dim, pink-tinged light you can’t see what.  He stuffs it into his coat, stands.  Picks up the shotgun.

This is it.  No more distractions, this is where you die.  He looks right at you (you think), empty orbits pointed squarely in your direction, ridges of bone looking something like a scowl, even in the absence of a lower jaw or any other articulated components of his face.  You want to close your eyes but you can’t.

The littlest version of death (you thought he’d be taller) tucks the gun under his arm, turns and leaves the way he came.

You weren’t important enough to kill.  Not worth a shotshell that could have been spent on a more worthy target.  With concerted effort you manage to wriggle out from under the dead demon.

Clad in nothing but a towel around your waist, and with diabolic sweat, blood and cranial fluid still drying in your hair, you stay in the room until well after the crack and thud of gunfire is no longer audible through the walls.