food chain part 01

Consciousness steals over you like a dream. It’s not light yet and part of you is still sleeping—the part that plans, worries, weighs. Instead you wake to a kind of simple, easy clarity.

You’re warm. It comes to your attention that this is in part because of yesterday’s blood meal from the two frightened occultist girls from the university, and in part because of my arms wrapped around you. You find yourself cradling a softly but permanently gurgling stomach; meanwhile your whole back and butt are snuggled against the body housing a soul now confirmed to believe its home is within yours.

I talked about lights, lines of force. In the near-darkness you can still see my forearm where it is draped over you, pressed slightly into the chub of your belly. My index finger happens to sit within the crease of your belly button, enfolded by your skin. You picture the world as I claimed to see it: are there lines of force beneath my skin, a great astral thread stitching soul to flesh, like veins that tie muscle to the distant powerhouses of vitality, the heart.

An especially loud gurgle curls from your midsection, sounding reproachful. Your belly is somewhat diminished and you don’t know how to feel about that. Your diet has been spotty at best but a renewed focus on blood and spirit has seen your layers of fat begin to thin.

You never really stop being hungry without flesh, though.

I’m deep asleep, so don’t feel you move my arm upwards. Insensate I fail to appreciate the ascent over the warm mountains of your breasts.

As your fangs piece skin, do those lines of light sever? Or do they connect, pouring energy down your throat? There is no doubt about what the blood does, welling mouthful by mouthful, slow enough to let you inhale and exhale to wash your senses with the taste of my blood.

You feel my chest expand sharply against your back as I inhale a deep breath. If you had applied anaesthetic to the skin could you have drained me without me waking? Would my soul have awoken in a private hell it, ignorant of your bite, could only hope was inside the core of you? But I am dreaming-awake and I do not fight the grip of your mouth.

So the room is silent but for our breathing and the paced, liquid sounds of your swallows, little gymnastic performances as your tongue massages another pull the volume of my left ventricle into your greedy gullet. Each gulp is loud as your throat closes on air that will erupt again when you are done.

You feel me grow hard against your backside, and then soft again as you continue to feed and my body fights to keep the core alive. Still you drink, regular and measured as the steps of a sleepwalker. The rhythm of thick, savory metal lulls you like the waves of a diminishing tide.

I lie there waiting for you to stop and perform your post -feeding belch. A pain in my chest and head accompanies a feeling of confusion and panic. Still the regular march of gulps and occasional slurp as you drink me.

You are going to stop, right?