Allison tried to be a good host but emotion and blood loss left her brutally drained. She was adamant that you take her double bed, so right now she’s crashing on roommate Daniel’s. I hold the towel as you step out of a long, hot shower. It just about wraps around you but doesn’t really overlap. You tamp yourself somewhat dry and then content yourself with air-drying. Your hair goes up in another towel.

(Closing section of last Friday’s kiss, as a reminder.) There’s a hesitation, but self-preservation or something kicks in. While I thrust deep inside you, Allison crushes Fern’s squirming body beneath her own and feverishly massages your clit. Into your ear she continues to murmur: “you’d fucking eat me too, wouldn’t you? How many people can you cram into your fat guts?” Beset by pleasure inside, behind and afore, you nevertheless snatch a moment of lucidity and grab her by the hair.

Anticipation is half the fun. Some who think they know you might be surprised that you can be so patient. But there’s a quiet joy in being so obviously vampiric: sitting in the brittle gloom of a dozen candles, fireplace well-fed but banked to give a soft sensuousness to the unfamiliar living room. Across the coffee table are spilled a dozen red roses. Part of the reason you don’t mind waiting is because Helen is keeping you company.