Byron Cheever lay face down on the cold wet stones.
He could feel them crawling across his back, their thousand sand-dry tongues lapping at his skin. They'd torn the clothes from his back. He now knew ecstasy.
He had been the one.
Opened the door for them, for the Radiant One, the Light Bearer, the angel.
He tasted salt in the back of his throat and coughed.
They had drawn off the skin of his back with their tongues. They were lapping like kittens, millions of small and tiny kittens, at the blood and meat that he exposed to them willingly.
It was beyond pleasure.
The pain did not begin until their tongues stopped and his nerves began reacting, his muscles going into spasms, in response to their ministrations.
It was only then that Byron regretted his actions.
It was only then that Byron Cheever would wish he had hanged himself when he'd had the chance.