I had not let go of his throat. The Demon Child
Bryan Cranberg didn’t feel my eyes as I watched them take him to the back room. I held it in my hand, flipping it so the metal end and the leather end formed a loop. He panicked, scrabbling at the ground as the people in the room watched impassively. I stopped at his neck, ripping his head aside by his mousy brown hair to bite him, then suck hard on the hole I created. “Did you not like that?” I asked, flashing him a grin. Soon his bucking began again, for a different reason. Perhaps he would think this was just a bad trip. It pressed against me, the fire in his veins reaching a frenzy I was familiar with—we call it the succubae stare, a look of hunger and lust that soon consumes most men into a sexual state that is rather primal compared to what humans are usually capable of accomplishing, given their rather fragile state. He yelped as I swung the belt across his ribs, landing a hit that raised a red rectangle on his right side.
