the witch pushes you down on the bed, straddles you, holds you in place with one hand on your chest. she waves the other hand, and her nails unfold into glittering, iridescent fractal claws.
"there's too much of the Real about you still, doll-thing," the witch mutters. "show me where."
you reach up, below the twitching blades, and wordlessly take her wrist, guiding her to your throat. she grins in understanding, and lays her claws against your skin.
her touch blooms into you like the heat of a blush, then like the numbness before the pain of a bad burn.
she tells you, "prepare yourself, doll-thing. i will count to three."
you nod your readiness eagerly, a part of you disgusted by how needy you must appear, how badly you want this, how scared you are that she'll sheathe her claws and walk away.
her eyes are the uniform violet-white of a plasma arc, with no pupils. you cannot guess what she sees.
she counts, "one," and then her claws close around your throat and you don't even get to scream.
they cut through your skin and below the Real and tear through its roots into you and she draws out something, dripping with red gore, and eats it.
you gape and gasp but cannot form a single sound.
she chews, streams of blood and shining mirror-ichor running down her face. and only when she swallows does your body finally emit a high, pure moan.
she licks her fingers clean, long tongue fearlessly darting into the fan of jagged claws, and then the witch who ate your voice rolls off you and tells you, "i'm done with you. go clean up."
you nod. there is nothing eager about it now. just measured movement. but she grimaces, and admonishes you, "use your words, doll."
so you use them: "thank you, my mistress."
somewhere in your throat, you feel the lingering reverberation of tiny chimes. □