Beast knew just where to find Beauty, but there was a catch: He knew she’d be starving after all this time.
He searched up and down the city for the perfect meal for her, just like a lover looking for that fine rose to give to his beloved, procrastinating every day, hesitating, fooling none other than himself that somewhere out there would be the perfect rose to express his love.
Beast found a candidate, grabbed him from an alley and brought him back to his lair. The man was well-fed, a bleeder, certainly. Beast poked him with a knife, and yes, he bled. He also cried out, “Ow, please don’t kill me, please don’t kill me,” but that was beside the point.
Beast had found something nice for his Beauty.
She was a Nubian princess, her body a perfect mold of female grace and agility, her face strong and regal, her cunt chocolate and deep.
A vile hunter had staked her, but she could not be killed by such mundane means. She could only be put to slumber, a deep sleep, dreamless as she had told him from her earlier experiences, with only one thing true every single time: She awakened with the deepest of hungers.
Beast was not the same as his love. Where she had no hairs on her perfect body, his was covered in layers of it. Where she craved warm blood, he craved the flesh.
It was a perfect match, then. They hunted together, and they split everything, hers was the blood, his was the flesh.
Raw.
Beast backhanded the man and knocked him unconscious. He exhaled and sat back on a stolen chair, staring at his rose. Would it be enough? Would it be good for her? Will she like it? Will she still love him, after all this time?
It had taken Beast fifty years to locate where the vile hunter had buried her body, and one more year to dig her out. The hunter had tasked his entire family to protect and entomb her, so naturally, Beast had to slay them all and then dig into the rock.
He opened the chamber where she was buried and found the sarcophagus. He almost awakened her that day, but something stopped him. It wasn’t perfect. Their reunion, it shouldn’t be like this. Him, covered in sweat and dirt from all the digging, his fur caked with dried blood on it.
He should have a poem ready for her, a man to feast upon, expensive clothes for her to choose from.
She was, after all, his Nubian princess.
So, he didn’t push open the lid of the sarcophagus that day. And he didn’t remove the stake from her dried up heart, and he didn’t awaken his love.
He relocated inside the hunter’s family mansion and took over everything from them, after he ate all their bodies. The young sister was the finest stake he had ever tasted. Or, perhaps it was the circumstances that made her flesh so supple and sweet. Beast didn’t know.
All that he did know was that the mansion had a vast library to keep his worried mind occupied and that his beloved was resting quietly beneath the foundations.
He visited her, almost every night. After a time, he read to her from his favourite stories. The library had some of the rarest tomes, and he found himself revisiting a lot of them over the years.
Time passed, and he still thought that the moment wasn’t right.
He scratched up a poem, but of course it wasn’t good enough. He bought dresses and jewels from Egypt and from all over the world, but of course they weren’t good enough. He found virgins, but of course, they were never good enough.
After a decade he admitted to himself that he was procrastinating. The books helped, it was in one of them, a passage that spelled out his predicament.
Well, not his exact situations, no author could fathom such a wild thing, but Beast saw himself and his thoughts and his feelings inside the pages of that book. He saw himself from above, a tired, weary, meek little Beast, worried about whether his beloved still wanted to be kissed.
He didn’t have any other women, none could compare. Over the years, he stopped hunting, he stopped feasting on raw flesh. He tried the finest cuisines, and if he wasn’t pleased, he ate the chef.
Survival of the culinest, he called it, and ended up with one who was the best. All for his Beauty, of course, for when she’d be together with him at last.
She enjoyed food, and drink, and the finest of spices. After her belly was full of blood, she craved for more vices.
They would kill and fuck and laugh, and they’d make the Earth tremble. For they were the Beast and the Beauty, a love pictured in Eros’ temple.
All those things went through Beast’s mind, just like they did most nights. He turned to the unconscious man, bleeding from his belly, resting his head, drooling on the carpet.
Was he the finest rose? Would Beauty be amazed?
Would she drink and fill up and then embrace him once again?
Beast couldn’t bear to think of the alternates. He would die, if those were true. He loved her so much that he didn’t dare not see it through.
But the time was past. The time was fleeting. The perfect moment would never come.
He slashed the rose’s neck, ripping a piece of it with his claws.
The man gurgled and choked in his own blood. Stained the carpet, crapped the chair, made a mess, Beast had to confess, that it wasn’t the perfect time and it would never come.
He went to the mirror. His fur was grey. His eyes were weak. He was no more predator, closer to prey.
He wasn’t fit for his Beauty’s side.
So he decided, this night in the basement’s darkness, he’d push the coffin aside.
He grabbed a candle, took the stairs, walked slowly to the tomb. He pushed the lid, it fell on the rock with a loud thub.
Beauty was there, in her sarcophagus, hungry, bony, beautiful. The stake was still there, embedded in her heart. Marring her breast, Beast leaned in, gave her a kiss, felt the fangs underneath her lips, she was cold, yet still as beautiful as the day he laid eyes upon her.
He grabbed the stake, pulled it up.
Beauty jerked up with a drowned man’s inhale.
“My love,” he said with tears, as she stared through him. Her fangs popped out, her tongue writhed, her neck gulped and craved for blood. He exposed his neck, “I’m the perfect rose,” he said, before she drained him dry.
Beauty filled her belly, and when she finally could see, she saw her love, old, weathered and grey, underneath her in red.
She cried out, howled at the round moon, cursed her luck, the hunters, all.
She dried out, her throat acked, finally collapsed, and the next day, she gave birth to Beast Junior.

The End.

Did You Like This Story? You can support me on Patreon. There is no exclusive content there but that way you can make sure these stories keep on coming. Or, you can get the Spitwrite collections which are easier to read on an e-reader.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: