The Mountain

The earthquake had stopped, so he scurried up from the silken depth,
his legs scraped up the swells of the fabric,
For some reason the world seemed to smell of blood.

When he emerged he saw very little, his world had always been a vision of washed gray and tiny sparkles of light. The alien trembling of shadows and fresh steam rolling off his body brought a shiver of surprise, his legs retracted, dug deep into the fabric landscape. It was like a hot boiling wind and he wanted to dash away.

But the odor stopped him.
There was something out there, thick with scent.

Despite the best of his small intelligence, he crept forward.

A giant monument;
A mountain that issued forth ripples of warmth and moisture,
wafting faint embers of life, so hot, it charred his body like a singing star

Faint smell of life vibrated through his senses, the blood was crisp, alive. The richness of its passion fried every twitch out of his head like lusty shrapnel, teased his stomach with cruel anticipation. Hunger and conquest seared in his veins. 

He found rumbling under his base and felt his heartbeat pounding in his shaft. For the first time he marveled at its fierce power as it arced across his being from his core to his most intimate extension, couldn’t tear his eyes away from watching the swollen spike from piercing out, mindlessly pointed forward, flapping hypnotically. He sat and listened and was stunned that his body has made his mental focus materialize into a life form of its own.

As he shifted the crown of his spike shaft dragged across the fabric, his legs buckled, shivered with a sudden miasma of itchiness, they strained and buckled, but he begged that it wouldn't stop. Something started behind his eyes, sluggishly washing against the shores of consciousness with the endless movements of his brute mind, A sea of blood, dreams of preys, endlessly crashed against the tiny sands of his memories, a lifetime of feasting on gargantuan moving preys, sucking their limbs dry.

He crept closer, he could smell a carnal essence still clung to the monument, scents of excitement, of male and female in fierce ecstasy. An avalanche of waxy glaze collapsed from the mountain's smooth peaks and splashed down, marking long white streaks as it tumbled and exploded into rolling orbs on the silk below. They were sweet, sticky bulbs that rolled around then merged into each other into a white recoiling puddle.

The mountain's tight, shining tubes were flooded with the smell of copper, but also admixed with the burning of urine. Its mammoth cavern was slick with white strands of musk: sweet, bitter, and rank. They twitched like tall gummy pillars, their ghostly tendrils webbed out as if caught in a sudden explosion, occasionally their lengths were decorated with swirls of coppery red.

The size struck him utterly, it reeked like a living prey-

Suddenly he stopped, transfixed,

Spikes on his legs raised in alertness as he found him staring,
A wet globe, pale but with an upright onyx pool held his reflection, he thought “it” was another hunter.
Slowly, cautiously he advanced, scraped against the mirror orb to peer at the other “hunter.” Tiny translucent arms, frail, extended back, mimicked his every movement. 

He twisted his head, inspected himself, then bit the surface. Blood and salt answered him, the fleshy globe was slicked with liquid salt, it tasted lovely. He watched his legs, and mostly his dangling growth from the salt slicked reflection, felt a prickling of excitement spark along his loin, and lunged, hips first into the mountain of flesh; his Moldering Palace.

So comfortable...he could die