You couldn’t look away. You wanted to but you couldn’t.

Cliché or not, gazing into her large black eyes was to look into the abyss.

Squatting, her long legs vulgarly spread she leisurely chose her target.

The squad was strung out in a semi-circle twenty feet from each, stripped, tied to posts.

She decided on Sarge. Slowly but steadily she inched forward.

Pheromones oozed from her like lava down a slope. She moaned lasciviously in between deep, deep breaths. The breaths grew more pronounced the closer she came to her selected victim until they were a cross between a purr and a growl.

The sheen of her abdomen reminded of gasoline on water yet the smell of her was pure musk.

Behind her, her tail stood erect, a small nasty looking needle-like protrusion at its tip.

Sarge was quivering, yet no sound escaped his lips. His legs barely held him up.

The rest of us continued to silently watch, accepting the inevitable.

When she got right up close, Sarge smiled beseechingly. She moaned softly, kittenish.

Then she whipped her tail with that razor-sharp needle tip grown to a foot in length through her legs and up between his legs.

Sarge’s scream was cut off almost as it began as the creature tilted her head, opened her jaws and with one click, lopped off his head. She caught the burst of blood from his last heartbeat in her mouth and heartily chugged it down.

We could see the rest of her tail pumping something up into Sarge’s body cavity. His skin began to turn red as his insides heated up.

She waited until a wisp of steam rose through his neck hole, then produced a long tongue and with spoon-like precision began her feast in earnest.

Maybe it was false bravado. Maybe it was just trying to keep one’s sanity with gallows humour, but Poonja remarked, “Reminds me of my first wife.”

Unfortunately for him, she seemed to understand our words.

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