freya 01
I come to the door when you knock. Will I ever not smile when I first see you? I offer to take your coat, and when you point out you’re not wearing one, I offer to take your pants instead. You bap me on the shoulder and I place a kiss on your cheek.
Music is coming from inside, and the scent of incense. An unfamiliar voice is singing to Billie Eilish, quite well. You raise an eyebrow at me and I go poker-faced.
“You said you were cooking.”
“I said I’d feed you.”
Now it’s your turn to kiss me, softly, on the mouth. Then you walk past me. You know if gives me a thrill for you to treat my sanctuaries like your own.
My living room is lit by lamps, the artificial fire, and a freeze-frame of an arty-looking hand-animated film I’ve been trying to get you to watch—Waking Life, or something. Ylang ylang incense perfumes the air, which is also touched by weed smoke. You know I get paranoid on the stuff, so it must be the other person in the room who’s smoking.
“Raven, meet Freya, an old friend of mine I thought you’d like. Freya, this is the woman I’ve been telling you about.”
“Oh, Raven!” A short, slightly chubby woman with bonny but care-worn face and a quick, elegant manner of movement struggles to put down her wine and the ashtray she was balancing in her lap. She leaps to her feet and almost runs to hug you.
I see you tense a little at the invasion of personal space and clear my throat. “Ah, Freya, you’re being very friendly.” I throw you an innocent smile."
“Oh! Sorry sorry sorry, it’s the Molly, I’m taking liberties, aren’t I? Sorry!” She backs off to give you space but still flashes a winning smile, looking you up and down. “Though not all the liberties I’d like. I can see what he—”
“Freya was trying to get me to play piano,” I say by way of interruption. You smirk in my direction. “I told her you play much better.”
“I’ve not played in ages. Nor in front of you.”
“No matter. I know three songs and one’s the funeral march. You’re undoubtedly better. Come, sit. Would you like a smoke? Anything else?”
You move to sit on a beanbag I use as a reading chair, eyes on Freya as she recovers her wine glass. “I think I’ll have second-hand smoke.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” I say, responding to your casual innuendo while nipping to the kitchen for a glass of something for you. I return with wine and an actual bloody Mary. Both are offered to you; you take your preference and I take the other.
We all fall to talking. I met Freya on the scene. She is a Domme, and actually kidnapped me for one of my birthdays. We laugh about it and she mocks my pain tolerance, saying I struggled so much I damaged her wall. Do you feel a pang of jealousy? It’s hard to tell. She is a Buddhist. She teaches English and Drama sometimes. Freya is not her real name but it’s the one she uses here.
She is bright and clear-headed but the MDMA makes her very tactile. Her hands unconsciously stroke a fluffy blanket I’ve strewn over my couch, though she’s sitting on the floor in front of it. Sometimes she gets up to sway with the music if the mood takes her. Even so, she continues to be a delightful, intelligent interlocutor.
“Have you ever been interested in kink?” she asks you, and then spots something. “Oh, look at your fangs!”
She runs up to you on your beanbag and asks you to smile. By this point you’ve had a couple of drinks and feel relaxed with her energy. You treat her to a wide smile, showing off your twin daggers.
“They are so natural! Where did you get them?”
“They’re custom. Made them myself. Took a lot of work.” You shake your head. “A lot of work.”
“It shows! They’re perfect! Do you bite him?”
I interject. “So far I’ve managed to escape every time.”
Freya tuts. “You shouldn’t let him slip away, Raven. You should grab him. Like this.”
Freya is strong. Quick and confident she encircles your shoulders with her arms and tilts you back so it’s natural for your chin to fall back. You resist out of surprise so her lips brush your cheek and jawline, not your throat.
Her lips linger a second.
She pulls back and straightens you up but doesn’t let the embrace drop. Her eyes search yours. Her scent is something surprisingly expensive-smelling. Her hands on your back are soft.
I see clearly what your eyes are saying. Freya misreads it. The mistake is forgivable, but fatal.
You grant her the kiss she pulls you into. Her lips are thin but expressive, brushing and teasing your own before opening into something deeper. Her tongue is quick and bold, exploring your mouth with sensitive motions. She tests the points of your fangs and swallows a giggle when her tongue is pricked. She moans approval as the taste of blood intensifies the passion of your kiss, but again, misreads the meaning.
One of her hands has moved to the nape of your neck, stroking small, sensitive circles. Your own arms have pulled her close in an exact mirror of the domineering hold she first took on you. She is so enraptured by your kiss that she doesn’t notice when you start leaning her back, completing the mimicry.
Her body squirms in its desire to touch you, breasts to belly to hip to thigh conforming to your line as your two forms press together.
She actually gasps as you break off the kiss. Her eyes are shining, focused on the middle distance, enthralled as she is with the sensations your touch causes in her.
The trail of wet, warm kisses you make down her jawline only serves to increase her desire. One of her hands strokes up your flank, causing shivers of pleasure.
Her pulse is now beneath your lips. You can feel it, rapid and strong.
“How does he ever resist this?” asks Freya, breathlessly.
The cutting edges of your fangs rest on the sensitive skin, stretching it taut.
“With constant regret,” you hear me murmur.
Your bite is practised and smooth, penetrating thin skin, fascia, and muscular artery wall, but no deeper. As if eager to find its new home her blood leaps out and paints the pink inside of your mouth red.
You have time for one swallow before she shrieks. Sensuality on her part morphs to frenzied scrabbling to get away; remains sensual on your end. You only have to hold tighter, like a jealous lover, and drink down what her body is so ready to give you.
Finding her struggles as ineffective as if fighting unbending steel, Freya panics. “Red!” she manages. “Red! Help!”
But you’re playing for keeps. She begins to quieten down once you’ve drunk a quarter of her lifesblood. It spurts a little less readily but you can now really savour it. Thick and hot, it carries with it all the force of a life. Capable of animating her body to incredible feats of strength or dexterity, its final act is to wash your tongue on its way down your throat to annihilation, igniting your senses and filling you with heat.
Heat and something else. A faint actinic taste tells you the blood is carrying traces of her high. As you drink, increasingly it becomes your high. Your shoulders relax as the second-hand smoke eases its way into your system. Your skin comes alight with the tingling desire to touch.
You feel my hands heavy on your shoulders. So satisfying a connection. I’m squatting behind you, making you a vampire sandwich: your prey in front of you, still struggling weekly, and your prey behind, nuzzling the back of your neck.
“Use your tendrils,” I say to you. In between leisurely swallows you make a little mmmh noise in the back of your throat: your tendrils have extended. They coil along my chest and the blade of one cuts a long, shallow line over my heart. I realise how close I always am to destruction and kiss your neck.
Black, knife-tipped, the extra limbs course on poor Freya. She makes a sound like a wounded puppy as the tips plunge between two pairs of ribs. With practised ease they seek out her heart and begin to sip. Soon each mouthful comes out three ways.
There is not much left of Freya now. She is mortally wounded. “Why?” she says, looking right at me. You don’t hear an answer.
Instead I stroke my hands along your tendrils. Have you ever been touched there before? Not in self-defence, but with love? I trace them back and forth, from where they pass smoothly between Freya’s ribs, to along their pulsing drinking length, to your shoulder blades, where her essence drains into you for you to use.
Thence a hand falls to your stomach. Hidden partially beneath your own ribs, the sudden feed has made it swollen, hard beneath my probing fingers. I provoke a burp, a brief interruption in the drink, as you exhale gas through your nose then continue to feed.
Before death you pull back. The tendrils retract and disappear, the fangs and lips part company with her flesh. She leans against you, pale and shivering. The MDMA high adores the sensation of pressure, the feeling of closeness. It calls for more closeness.
Freya has no energy to fight the darkness of your mouth as it closes over her. Her living flesh follows her blood, carried by the same ceaseless cadence of swallows, embraced by a throat as eager to feel her touch as all the rest of you. The Domme who simulated biting you curls obediently up within a stomach she swells to incredible proportions.
You are on your back. Inside you, your prey weeps and weakly struggles. Outside you, other prey is massaging all up and down your body, especially the trapped form of the dying woman. Touched on both sides, you feel the most awesome satisfaction. You announce it with a slow, breathy, terminal belch:
~braaaaauughrppp~
Sleep comes knocking, the heat from inside fusing with the second-hand smoke, rocked by the gastric contractions and the massage. Perhaps you delay it by demanding more intimate attentions from me. Perhaps you are content to be adored. But both Freya and I give up everything you ask of us. You fall asleep in love with your body, and feeling love all around you.