SHORT SPICY STORIES

FIRNES: Firnes are powerful immortal creatures (naturally women) who draw powers from Men’s semen. They cannot be killed unless they are seriously mentally unstable (which is rare). But even when healthy, they can be killed my Male Firnes (which are rare as well).

HORDE: A horde is like a pack.

LAIR: This is where a Firne Horde inhabit.

KYRIAR: This is the leader of a Horde. A group of Kyriars are known as The Amethyst.

SYFIRL: The supreme head of Firnes. Above the Amethyst. She resides in Amperes and have total control over it.

AMPERES: The headquarter of Firnes. They visit once in a while. It’s hidden in the real world and cannot be entered or exited unless the Syfirl permits.

~

Lust.

What amazes me is his attention to details. Oftentimes, I wonder if he’ll be so intricate when fucking me—if he had the chance.

He’s sat on the leafy ground twenty feet away from me, leaning against a thick tree.

His demeanor is relaxed, judging from how he drew a knee to his chest while leaving the other stretched out on the ground, both pulled apart to let his hands rest between them. I believe they’re grazing his crotch.

I lift an exhausted paper scroll to my face. On it is a drawing carefully illustrated with charcoal.

Nineteen hours ago, I met Azalea. And he’s already made a portrait of me.

Bringing the paper down, I stare at him and wonder whether even now I’m living rent free in his mind.

“Ha, you wish!” Loka hisses from behind me. The bastard-ass thinks her hour glass figure automatically makes her shine among other females.

She’s quite the joker.

“Don’t pretend like I don’t know what you’re thinking,” she continues despite the fact that I’m ignoring her. “Your eyes tell. Even the poor guy would think you’re falling in love with him.”

I raise a brow, looking over my shoulders at Loka, rolling up the paper and tossing it to her.

Then I pick up the heavy shackles before standing up to approach Azalea.

The guy looks at me as I near him. He has a smoking frown on his face that could possibly torch the world if I were to create a spark.

As I reach where he’s sitting, my shadow casts on him, shading him from the sun, while he looks at me with narrowed eyes; eyes that have seen more evil than the word itself.

Evils created by the very hands he used to sketch my image.

“Get up,” I tell him.