postcard amelie 04
Breakfast is long, luxurious, and includes courses not available at the buffet.
Amelie returns after a long absence with a room service trolley loaded with covered plates and glasses. She also comes wearing a floaty blue body-length sarong and a slightly shy, hungry smile.
“It’s about time,” you begin. “I’m hung—”
With a twitch of her shoulderblades, she reveals she is wearing nothing else. You watch the slinky fabric flow over her shoulder, the swell of her breasts, her wide hips, to pool around her feet.
You’re now paying attention, sitting up on one arm and letting your eyes follow the fabric.
She smirks and sashays towards the bed. A loving stroke starts below the curve of your belly and glides all the way up, a mountain climber ascending and descending, until she grabs your shoulder and pushes you back down to the bed.
“I’m your first course.”
“Dangerous way to phrase things when I’m so—”
“Lie down for me, pretty Raven.”
The first course is sweet, and yields to your mouth like the ripest peach. You grip her hips and she rides your face, hands braced against the wall behind the headboard.
When she comes she arches her back and goes rigid. You come to adore the way she shivers, flushing in the face and closing her eyes.
The paroxysm passed, she moves aside and leans down to kiss you. You return the kiss, threading your fingers through her chestnut hair. Then, you take gentle fistsful of her hair and pull her back, still close enough that you feel her breath catch on your cheek.
“Now feed me something I can swallow.”
Amelie complies eagerly. You sit up in the bed and are treated to a smorgasbord she must have bribed or cajoled the restaurant staff to procure. Reflecting foreign hotels’ somewhat schizophrenic approach to breakfast you dine on sausage, bacon, beans, mushrooms, tomatoes; but also croissants and pastries, which Amelie liberally spreads with butter and Nutella; sweet little cakes that taste of almonds; plates of cold cuts and cheese and toast.
“You’re so hungry,” says Amelie, dabbing the corner of your lips of chocolate spread. She doesn’t realise it but she absently kisses the napkin where it touched your lips.
You finish chewing your mouthful and swallow. “Mhmm,” you agree. The excess of this morning’s meal on top of yesterday’s makes you feel a little lightheaded, your body stealing its own blood to process the sheer quantity of food."
You go on. “But it’s not just about the hunger. It’s about the fullness. And taking you in. And breaking you down.”
Amelie freezes momentarily. She flickers so easily between bold and frail. It’s dangerously enticing.
You decide to play a game. The stakes are high. You wonder if Amelie will make it, but you already know one key to her soul.
“Amelie. You said I’m what you want to be. But what am I?”
“Hmm?” Glass clinks as the jug of orange juice she’s holding strikes the cup. “I only know you’re like the woman I saw who…”
“I am not like her,” you say, waving away the proffered juice. “Amelie, do you really want to be like me?”
“Yes,” she says in a small voice. Her eyes flicker over your body. Sitting upright, your newly created food baby crowns a puffy, pillowy gut which spills over your thighs. She tears away her gaze and looks instead into your eyes. “More than anything.”
“Give me your hand.” There’s a clear hesitation before she eventually holds it out to you. You close your fingers around her wrist and pull closer, so she has to sit near enough that her thigh brushes your much larger thigh. “I won’t promise anything, yet I will give you a chance to learn more. But there’s a cost. And a risk. You could end up like Gemma, or worse. Do you want to play a game?”
The weight of the moment settles visibly on Amelie’s shoulders. Observing minutely, you can see the corners of her mouth pull down in a primal gesture of fear; hear the heart pound; smell the seasalt burst of sweat. She is terrified. But gooseflesh rises on her forearms, and this pretty nipples you kissed yesterday harden with arousal. There is something more than fear. Perhaps she will be conflicted, not wholly predator and so made wholly prey. Oh well, better to find out sooner…
“Look at my face and tell me what you see.” You both stare deeply into one another’s eyes. Hers break off, exploring your face, seeking what you’re hinting at.
“… Nothing. I mean, you’re gorgeous, and there’s a flake of croissant here—” she brushes a speck from your chin—“but I don’t see—”
“Look closer.” You give her a slow, broad smile.
At first she doesn’t see. And then, suddenly, she does. She gasps. Your grip on her wrist tightens to prevent her from pulling away.
“Raven you have fangs!”
“Yes,” you say. “If you pull away from me before I tell you to I will devour you. Do you understand? Good. Now, what am I?”
Amelie is thunderstruck. Her eyes scan your face anew. You know she is seeing for the first time the wicked barbs behind your lips, the otherworldly glints of violet and red swirling in your irises.
She gives you a name: “Vampire.”
“Yes, among other things. You didn’t see before because people tend not to see what they don’t want to see.”
“I want to see you,” comes the meek response.
“Here are the terms of our game. You’re going to feed me, like you have already, but a part of yourself.”
“No! No, no, no,” chants Amelie with stony dread. She has the presence of mind to leave her wrist in your grip, though it shakes violently. “Please, anything but—”
“You’ll count five swallows. Anything less and I’ll take the rest when I swallow you whole and alive. Anything more and I’ll probably frenzy, and you end up dried out like twigs wrapped in paper. Do you understand?”
It’s a miracle she doesn’t pass out. Her heart must be doing 220 and her skin is clammy to the touch. Still she nods, looking like she is about to cry. Your stomach rumbles violently around its freight of mundane food. The juxtaposition delights you.
“Good. Pay attention. Five swallows.”
Amelie begins to whimper, a high-pitched keening as you close the distance to her wrist. Your lips feel the rapid pulse beneath the skin, feel it jump further when the biting points of your fangs trace over paper-thin and sensitive skin.
“Raven, I don’t think I can—”
You bite. One motion connects her circulatory system to your digestive system. Each beat of her terrified caged heart is accompanied by a great swell of thick, rich arterial blood which fills your mouth as eagerly as she was, this morning.
The first swallow drinks off that enthusiasm. She watches your throat bob, bearing the stuff of her life down your throat, and silently mouths the word “one”.
The next mouthful, you show Amelie how her body will feed itself to you. Your jaw relaxes and the blood that pools on your tongue finds no resistance at the back of your throat. Of each new pulse of blood you allow half to flow down your wide-open gullet. Watching, it must feel to Amelie like she is pouring out onto some vast desert, being drunk up apparently without effort, knowing only that she is gurgling into place down below.
She gasps, a sound of relief, when you swallow a great mouthful of her blood. Two.
For the next you actually suck. A line of force from wrist to heart tears the strength out of Amelie and she buckles, mewling, almost passing out. It gives you an enormous feeling of power that accompanies the flush of stolen heat. A mercifully small mouthful, which she counts of loud with a stammer: “Tw— three.”
Fourth, you let loose the animal hunger rising in you. Your fangs leap to tear open a larger artery. The scent of blood perfumes everything as it spills down your face, hot and thick. You take in her blood with a slurping ~shluuuUUUrrgk~, the sanctity of her life force reduced to bad table manners.
“Four,” says Amelie, weakly slumped against your belly.
For the last pull that will not be fatal, you carefully turn Amelie’s head until her eyes meet yours and are captured. Those firelight glints of violet and red dance and swirl, finding echoes in Amelie’s. Her mouth falls open and her eyes dilate like a she’s taken a hit of laudanum. She is rapt, utterly under your spell.
This is the most dangerous mouthful. As well as blood, you conjure from Amelie her very soul. The spark of the divine invested in your lover wanders under your enchanting gaze like a ship with no anchor. A gentle suck eases a fragment between your soft, yielding lips.
Where Amelie’s blood tastes meaty and dense, her soul tastes like bright sunshine, feels like champagne bubbles on your tongue. Keenest ecstacy fills you with every touch. Closeness to another person in its purest form is a high like no other.
Amelie’s spirit grasps for connection, though, and finds itself bounded by your oral surfaces. Your teeth, your inner cheeks, the space between gums and lips, the frenulum beneath your tongue: all are caressed by the purest essence of Amelie, all of them become a prison she cannot escape. Cosseted by your saliva, massaged by your tongue, she swims deeper, that perfect being now experiencing the fleshy nodules of your tonsils, the slick mucous of the back of your throat. She squeezes through your epiglottis, a somnambulist gliding towards utter and complete destruction.
It feels heavenly.
“R… Raven.”
You snap from the orgiastic pleasure of the fifth mouthful to focus on your prey/lover/disciple. With a true force of will you force yourself to swallow. Blood slides down your throat, but also a fragment of something infinitely precious, that your body and soul will now trap and subsume. A part of Amelie will forever be immured inside you, perhaps literally wandering your internal hellscape.
“Five.”
You lick Amelie’s wounds to close them, wipe your face with the back of your fist, and then pull her close to your stomach. She shivers, staring into space. Her heart is weak but you sense she is in no danger, merely coming down from the adrenaline, the feed, the spiritual dilation and sundering. You release a small belch that tastes of Amelie.
“Sssssh,” you murmur, stroking her hair. “You’re safe now.”
After a few moments she seems to come to life. Her cracked, agonised cry of horror is brief but communicates a lifetime of fear and desperation. You have cracked her open and she has no defence left against you.
She sobs like a child and you rock her, singing quietly until she drifts off. Your gut sings a different song. Part of you wrestles with what you have done to her. Part of you exalts.
It has been a long time since you have tasted prey so sweet.