lucy donor
You feel my heart flutter. Connected as we are the red spring palpably hesitates where it passes between your lips. Your practiced gut stretches to take almost half of me and your first and deepest instinct is to suck harder, pulling out my essence where before it flowed into you.
“‘Ven,” I murmur, voice thick, slow. “I lov—”
You place a hand over my mouth. Last words are muffled into incoherence. Then, with a painful exercise of will, you cease to drink. The patient, sucking swallows become kisses, leaving little red stains where your lips touch.
“Don’t be silly,” you whisper. I am weak, on the ground beneath you, and your body surrounds me. The vitality that you stole from me burns inside you, and that heat comes back to me through your enveloping fat. Your belly pins me to the earth as ineluctably as if you were made of iron; your tits spread across my chest and give me the most beautiful difficulty in drawing breath. “I’m not taking you yet.”
Fight and flight have exhausted themselves. I’m stripped raw and all defences have vanished with my strength. You watch big, simple expressions chase one another across my face: relief, sadness, happiness, longing, love. When it comes out in the form of tears you press down harder upon me, your bellyfat squidging around my waist: a full-body hug celebrating your body.
You never make food for others but you do order me something, and bring me water and a blanket while it comes. I’m kept warm and feeling safe by your cuddles on the couch, even while it’s my blood that’s causing your stomach to gurgle wetly, that’s slicking its way down your greedy little pipes.
The next day I greet you in the morning with a kiss and the biggest cuddle as you wake up. I thank you profusely, for my life and for the near loss of it. I tell you I’ve been working on a surprise for you.
You kiss me on my healed bite mark and I collapse to the bed like a puppet whose strings have been cut.
You gym alone. I’m too weak, still, and Lucy texted to say she wouldn’t be there but she’ll see you soon. Shaun never comes without Lucy.
It’s less fun but your mind is set. You want progress. In addition to counting reps you’re wondering how many calories you took from me.
Lucy’s scent perfumes your house so you aren’t surprised to see her as you sashay into the living room. She startles when she sees you, standing up jerkily from the armchair. I give you a grin and a wave from where I’m in plonked in front of your couch.
“H— hi,” she says, waving with elbow stiffly by her side. Out of gym attire she wears high Doc Martens, coarse-weave fishnets, a -loved short leather skirt and a Nirvana T-shirt under an oversized red-and-black lumberjack shirt. Her lipstick is purple, her eyes are carefully—obsessively—lined in black, and her black hair comes up in two high ponytails. She hasn’t managed to make more than a flicker of eye contact with you.
“Hello, Lucy,” you say, then look to me. I’m still sitting on the ground like a recently exsanguinated Buddha, big smile on my face. “What’s going on, Andrew?”
I gesture to Lucy, who speaks. “Sorry for surprising you like this but, Andrew told me about you and we’ve been talking and I wanted, well.” She puts the heels of her hands to her eyes, a gesture she makes on her bad days. “I’m messing this up. I want you to bite me, Raven.”
You face registers surprise but your body, famished from the gym, is already padding towards her across the living room. She’s taller than you but her rounded shoulders make her seem small compared to you. You are instinctively gentle when you take her hand, startling her into looking into your eyes for the first time. “Why?”
She draws in a deep breath and then speaks. As she does you feel her tremble like a baby bird. Her heart—you can hear, see and feel her heartbeat and look forward to the other two senses getting involved soon—squirms like that same baby bird in her chest.
“Lots of— all my life, I’ve made mistakes, like, I couldn’t keep my—” She stops herself and draws a breath. “I just want to make someone happy. Everything’s hard. I mean, I can deal, but… Andrew told me how just a couple of pints would make you so happy and fulfilled.”
“Did he tell you how dangerous it would be?” You walk your fingers up her arm, a playful gesture at odds with the seriousness of the question. When you reach the collar you pull up some slack then let the soft fabric fall away from her neck. She sways under your casual possessive spell.
“Yeah, I’m clean and I haven’t used in two years. And I’m a vegetarian.”
“I’m not,” you say, before realising what she’s answering. “No, I meant dangerous for you, sweet!”
“Oh!” Lucy laughs and puts the heel of her hand on her cheekbone, a curious habit of hers when embarrassed. “No, I mean yes, he’s explained that you’re… fierce.”
I pipe up. “Ferocious was the word I used, darling,” I say. “And ravenous. And greedy.”
You throw me a glance that tells me you’re thinking your decision not to gobble me down, then look back to Lucy, who’s brushing a few stray hairs out of her eyes. “Well, I’m all of these things. I’m also gentle when I want to be. And you are offering me a great gift.”
“I don’t care if you end up— y’know. Whatever. You gotta go some time. Better on a cute girl’s fangs than a car crash or an OD.”
“You think I’m cute?” Your smile is sweet as honey.
She lowers her eyes again and blushes furiously beneath foundation that, incidentally, is almost exactly your shade. “I mean yeah, you’re kinda hot. It makes this a lot easier.”
The Nirvans T-shirt isn’t in the way like the lumberjack shirt was, but you tug the collar away from her throat anyway, as an excuse to touch her. She smells of vanilla body spray, but not on the chest up. Just her natural scent.
The thought occurs that if you swallowed her down she has so little fat you’d barely noticed her on your tits. You gently nudge it aside.
“Thank you. So, are you ready?”
You feel her stiffen but not back away. “Now?!”
“You gotta go sometime,” you say in a purr. Your arms wind around her own, settling about her thin waist. Unresisting prey, willing to stand there and offer itself to you: the power rush feels a little heady. “Thank you for this. It makes me happy. I get so hungry.”
She called you cute. You take a punt and start things off with a loooong lick from her shoulder to her neck. Her hesitance halves straightaway, evaporating into a long exhale.
Her skin is tight as a drum. Your fang tips graze it two or three times before you select a place to pierce her. Your lips press to the skin in an expectant kiss and your tongue-tip tastes her flesh. Again, the idea that she would barely count. Your stomach rumbles horribly, startling her. It looks like she might freak out, but she just murmurs under her breath: “please just enjoy me.”
You do. The bite is swift and merciful, expertly opening a channel from her carotid. An explosion of high-pressure blood hits the back of your throat and almost goes up your nose. Flavour assaults you. She’s richer than she looks, and curiously dark, like dark chocolate or coffee.
You want to open your mouth wide and take all of her into the pit. You’re going to. Maybe not today, but from this point she belongs to you.
An advantage of biting the carotid is that the strength goes out of her straightaway. She collapses into your arms with a little sigh. Every last drop of her belongs to you and right now it’s fighting to gush down your throat and fill you up.
You relax and let it happen. Your only actions are to taste and to lightly, regularly swallow. All the while your patient stomach accepts its meal, growing apace, churning up blood and swallowed air with a constant distant groaning and gurgling.
You’ve only just started when I speak softly, standing right behind you. “Raven, that’s two pints. Much more and she’ll be in danger.”
You shake your head, buried fangs involuntarily widening the wound. “Mmmng.” The sound, made in your body in between swallows, is “mine”.
Sweet, salty blood continues to flow as I speak. Damnit, why can’t I just shut up and let you focus on your meal? You’re getting carried away, already planning your moves on how to cram her body down your throat, already flexing the spiritual reflex that will pull her soul down alongside her blood if she dies.
“Yours,” I say, agreeing. “And if she lives, she’s yours next Monday too. Tomorrow you meet Tuesday. You’ll have a cult following eager to feed you. Just… Let her live a little longer.”
A cult? The idea amuses you. Enough to offset the murderous annoyance at your meal being interrupted.
You take one last mouthful of blood, and then another, and then another. After a final last mouthful you lick the wound closed and let her slump. You know I’m there to catch her semi-conscious form and lay her gently on the ground.
A series of deep, calming breaths are required to bring your frenzy under control. You swallow constantly, involuntarily trying to drink her from the very air itself.
Eventually control reasserts itself. You look down on the woman resting her head in my lap and see not just meat for your tummy but also the shy, damaged person whose one desire was to make you happy.
You kneel and stroke her hair. Her eyes half open and then fully open when she realises it’s you she’s looking at. She searches your face with a kind of frantic urgency.
“Shhh,” you soothe, continuing to stroke her hair. The eyes grow less frantic, more placid. “You were delicious. You made me very happy. Thank you Lucy.”
She offers up a tired smile and lets out a long breath. Just how much did you take? Your guts inform me you’re about as full as the day before. Oops.
“Here, hold her while I get a blanket and things,” I say. You take her head, weak as a baby’s.
“You… Full?” Her voice is distant.
A squeaking gurgle gives an answer. She’s already sloshing down into your guts. A kind but slightly sad smile as you say, “No. But you’ve given me enough. For now.”
She nods and closes her eyes. I reappear with pillows and blankets.
Her whisper is almost too quiet to hear, but we both get it.
“Maybe next time… Make you full.”