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She was twelve years old when she had been Taken.

She didn't think of it as rape. It had been much more than that: a tearing, ripping of flesh that had affected her down to the level of her DNA. He had left her for dead that night, and by all rights she should have been. She didn't know how she had survived, but she knew that she had been affected, and would never be the same.

Now she danced, if that's what you could call it. She got naked for anonymous men for money, and they looked at her, leered at her flesh and fantasized about touching her, tasting her, exploring her every nook and cranny.

She hated it. She hated their leering eyes, the tongues they would stick out at her and waggle in that oh-baby-i'm-so-sexy fashion, the times they would try and grab her ass. She hated having to be nice to them.
But she also needed them. She needed to feel their touch, needed the contact of flesh-on-flesh, needed to feel wanted, admired, desired. She used them as much as they used her.

And once in a while, a special one would come along. One that would get too far into it, and try and take a private dance a little too far. He'd offer to take her out into the parking lot, flash a wad of cash at her, thinking he'd be irresistible.

She'd say yes.

And she'd meet him there, see his eyes glazed over in a methamphetamine ecstacy, tiny beads of sweat on his forhead, licking his lips in anticipation. She'd unbutton his shirt slowly, feeling his heart pounding underneath his chest, push him back on the seat and straddle him with a strength that seemed impossible in her tiny frame. Watch him struggle in ecstacy as she slowly nibbled on the flesh of his neck, biting just hard enough to draw blood, listening to his breathing quicken in excitement.
And he wouldn't notice when she'd begin to change, her ribcage lengthening, her face becoming distorted, teeth growing, hair beginning to sprout along her back. He wouldn't notice until it was too late, his excitement turning into terror, his struggles becoming more frenzied.

She liked to play with her food.

He wouldn't last. They never lasted. And she'd have to spend the next hour licking the blood and bits of flesh from her fur, or she'd have hell to pay when she changed back. The stains never seemed to wash out completely.

Comments

( 3 comments — Leave a comment )
alcippe
Nov. 28th, 2004 07:57 pm (UTC)
WOW.

Okay, I really liked that.
magicmarmot
Nov. 28th, 2004 08:32 pm (UTC)
Glad you liked it. Came to me in the shower this morning. I can't figure out if it should be a part of a larger work. It feels like it needs to go somewhere-- like she needs fulfillment as a chartacter.

I have another shifter story that I'm working on. Very much a movie. Too many unanswered questions to have a full story yet, but I like the characters.
gingerpook
Nov. 29th, 2004 08:44 am (UTC)
I think this works best as a story, if left at this length. A nice, powerful, short-short.

Definitely longer, if converted to film.
( 3 comments — Leave a comment )

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