The visitor

Reformatted and reposted

Have you ever just felt consumed? It’s the best feeling in the world, yet the scariest. For Gypsy, she’s obsessed with an image. Someone, she didn’t know wrecked havoc in her mind, and the harder she tried to rid herself, the deeper his nails dug. Who the fuck was this face that had haunted her for the past week. Tall, dark, and she sensed something destructive. Why did every fragment of hair stand on end when he entered her mind? An over-active imagination can be a dangerous place to play.

Midnight, the studio dimly lit, she arranged all the colors on her palette, one way to kill the nightmare was to allow it inside. She would invite the beast who haunted her to take control of her mind, body, and if he so chose, her soul. A fresh canvas on the easel, her brushes clean and ready, there was one thing left to do. If she were to bring him in, she would need to allow him full access. Reaching to the side, she pulled the drawer over in the small rolling cart. It was easy to access to many of her instruments, but tonight, she only needed one. The glimmer of a straight razor caught her attention.

“Fuck!” growling, a small slit in her fingertip dripping blood. She was a bleeder, and this tiny slice would yield an extensive offering. Using the other hand, she started at the top of her finger, milking her way down. She was forcing the blood to flow generously from her finger, each drop hitting the last space on the palette. How do you summon the devil? With bait, of course.

Almost fearful of the brush, she shook when holding it. It was a simple instrument of art, and yet this was going to be something so unholy that she already felt a stirring deep inside her soul. She would paint him from memory, her dreams being the guide. Dipping the brush into the black paint, she dabbed a drop of herself in with the paint. She would create him with her mind’s eye. Each stroke of her brush bringing him closer to reality. As the brush hit the canvas, her body filled with electricity and fear. How do you fear a ghost, though? It wasn’t real. Was it?

Hours passed, she mixed each bit of paint with her blood, the room chilling as she did. She was sure that was the lack of a heater and her closeness to the ocean. Her front yard of the studio was sand, and 100 yards away from the Pacific ocean’s wrath. California is the land of sunshine and warm weather, but not tonight. It’s a chilly 45 degrees with a wind at 20 knots. It felt more like than Midwest than the west coast.

Completed, she knew less now than she had before. This man, the figure in front of her, was no one she had known or met. Or had she? Time would tell if he found her or not. She had fed him, and they say, never feed someone you don’t want them to stay. Twenty minutes later, she would find out the hard way that some things are better left in the dreams than brought to the light.

He circled the female as she slept on the couch. Her hands still covered in paint, clothing stained with a month’s worth of portraits. He wondered for a moment. All of those pictures on the wall so happy, but there was something dark about this one. She was dabbling in the darkness to escape the reality of the light. Pity, though, she’s beautiful in a classic way.

His patience fading, his desire increasing, he had been dormant for too long, caged in his mind, waiting, watching, and needing what was not his to take. Would that stop him? It never had before, and it wouldn’t stop with her. He stood at the back of the couch, his tall, lanky frame leaning down to watch, could he touch her without her knowing? The thrill of the forbidden growing with strength inside the man. He stretched his arm out, a single finger trailed down her body, starting at the hollow of her neck, not stopping until he reached her panty covered cunt. He held a hand over the v-shaped mound. Her entire body radiated a warmth that he had never found.

“It’s time to wake up. I’ve waited long enough for you,” he said. His hand had traveled from her groin to throat, the grip light, but enough to get Gypsy’s full attention.

“What? Who,” whispering, she feared opening her eyes. What if it worked? More so than that, what if it hadn’t?

“Quiet. You did this to yourself. You sent the invite, now didn’t you?” he asked. His hand was tightening his grip around her slender neck. “Did you think this through? Or did I get your panties wet, and you knew the only way to find me was to be a little cock tease with your scent?” he smirked, inhaling deep.

The small slit on her finger had called him home. Almost as though a shark circling in the water, all it takes is one drop to cause a feeding frenzy.

Without warning, her body beckoned from the couch. Brought to him, he positioned her so that her back was flat to his chest. A few steps forward, and they both stood in front of the full-length mirror, her eyes still not fully opened. She was frightened of this unknown force that had tugged her like a magnet in the sand.

“Open your eyes. You wanted to see me so bad, now open your eyes,” his voice rang out to be insensitive and uncaring.

“Please,” one word was all she said, her lids opening, taken back to a time she had forgotten.

“Remember me now?” his lips placed at her ear, he moved his hand from her throat to grope her tits through the sheer white t-shirt she wore. One quick rip and her torso exposed to him. For the first time in her life, she felt utterly vulnerable to another person. “Now, are you scared of what you awoke?” a growl weakened her knees, his hand raked down her chest. Before she felt it, she could smell it. Blood. Her blood. A warm stream pours down her chest from 4 straight lines. Nails as sharp as the razor she used on herself, the pain set in with a searing throb.

“FUCK!” screaming, she didn’t know it was her until she looked in the mirror at her shaking image.

A hand moved down her chest, smearing the warm nectar into her flesh. He was collecting all he could, slowly moving his hand to her white cotton panties, cupping her with his bloody fingers, pushing them into her through her panties. “I’m going to break this pussy,” his voice calm, yet filled with a deep, violent passion.

She did this. She brought him out of the painting and into her world. She awoke what she feared the most.

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