fangs 02
Today is also the day. And tonight. And today.
It’s days before putting in the fangs doesn’t make you excited beyond restraint. You strut naked through the house, you dance, you write, you paint. You slip out into the night, doing I don’t know what. I wonder if you’re hunting for the transfixed woman. I picture you taking other prey and cherish the jealousy it arouses in me.
I wake at midnight to find your lips on my upper arm, framing your sharpened fangs. When you feel me stir awake you bite, piercing skin. You feel the points of your teeth test the fascia around my muscle, tougher than the skin. The muscle spasms and tenses as I try to push you off me. You lean all your weight on my arm and chest and hold me in place with your excruciating bite.
The pain is startling. From cold, I have no endorphins, I’m not in any sort of prey-space. You get to see what the animal will do when you bite.
The animal pushes you bodily up with the free arm then feels your jaws tense further. When you remain attached the animal freezes, vocalises: a full-throated moan, inarticulate, communicating pain and anger and fear.
The pain is like a steel bolt through my arm. I cannot move without you tearing deeper, and so I do not move. In the dark I stare at you, see your eyes closed as you taste blood and feel me submit.
It feels like my arm is yours. Heat flushes it. I can do nothing but watch.
You wait until I am awake, until my system is flooded with endorphins and oxytocin, until my heart rate drops from fight-or-flight to mere galloping. You wait until you can see the light of worship in my eyes.
You place your finger in front of my lips. And then, just this once, far from major vessels, you bite as hard as you can.
White-out. Your teeth tunnel through my flesh until fangs meet bottom teeth. Blood is your reward.
You will never more completely reduce someone to a piece of meat.