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Remember when you gave me my first gay experience?
I’m pretty sure that’s not what you set out to do. It was a year or so ago, now. I’ve been thinking about it today because of what I said the other day about living more with you than I ever would without you.
We burst through my front door from the taxi, all three of us. You and he were giggling because you’d been winding me up the whole journey, speculating about my gag reflex, making me blush by talking about my, y’know, butthole and everything. Honestly when you go crude you go crude. You told him—Simon he was called—that if you could grow a dick you’d have no use for him tonight, and he told you if you had a dick he’d make himself pretty indispensable.
This was back when you are painfully thin. I don’t know if it was for ritual, for aesthetics, or if you were purging some other regretted prey, but on your body was no trace of any life you had ever taken. When you stepped out of your miniskirt and top in my living room you were a sculpture in not very much marble, pale as moonlight. Your belly went slightly in beneath your ribs. The crests of your hips were visible, rising above the line of your panties. Your collarbones would hold tequila, as I’d proved in the club we had left.
You were beautiful. You are beautiful now. I don’t think you could ever be otherwise.
“Okay you’re gorgeous?” said Si, studying you like a curator with one hand holding the opposite elbow and one hand on his lips. “And if I ever went pink I totally would. Call me if you ever sort out that dick thing, sweetie.”
You preened under his attention, straightening up your hair with an elegant flick. “You’ll have to make do with my prosthetic, then. Andrew—” I grinned an I-see-what-you-did-there grin “—undress him.”
We looked at one another, Si and I, measuring each other’s response. I extended my hand toward him, an invitation to him and an acceptance of your authority; and when he took my hand, the deal was made. You sat with crossed legs in the centre of the couch, and directed, and watched.
You made me strip him first and take him in hand. We kissed without being instructed to and you permitted us to lean into it, but reprimanded us after.
“You’re mine,” you said to me, staring me in the eye. “You don’t act without permission. Understand?” My smile in response was easy, not ashamed. You weren’t looking for an outward display of submission: you knew for a fact I was yours, and that I needed only the clarification of your desire.
“Good. Now, where to begin?”
I learnt a lot that evening. You made me take him first. I know you treasure women more than men but I think our enjoyment coloured your cheeks and brightened your eyes.
Looking back, it’s so strange to think you were so thin. The lines of your body echoed the sharp lines of your fangs. Maybe that’s why you didn’t call yourself thin, but vampiric…
You made me kneel and go down on him. I set to my task with a will, but in my mind’s eye it wasn’t Simon on whose cock I was trailing kisses from base to tip, but yours, granted by some craft. I watched you as I took the velvet length of him into my mouth. It was your backside I gripped in impatient fingertips. It was your cum I swallowed down.
Perhaps you were thinking the same thing as you stroked yourself and stared right back.
We three were collapsed next to one another and giggling. Simon and I had showered. A bottle of wine was being passed back and forth. I drank twice as much because, being in the middle, I handled it twice as often. You being tiny, you started slurring pretty early on.
“It wasn’t wine, it was tequila,” you clarify after I describe laying you on the club bar and lapping up drink from your clavicles. You’d turned the gesture into an invitation, done the same to a girl in a too-tight dress, and managed to swallow a pint of her blood with your tequila. Long, black hair can cover many sins, and her expression spoke of deep rapture as much as it did the freeze reflex of transfixed prey.
“I was too fat,” I say, handing you the bottle. “Not a shot glass, not even a puddle. A damp pavement at best.”
“I had to ask for a volunteer. I was so thirsty. Still am.” You turned onto your side and fixed Simon with a movie star pout. I remember watching how effortlessly you slipped from character to character, according to the person, to get what you want. I remember thinking maybe you were playing a character with me. But I don’t think so. And even then, I knew that I was yours. I would have accepted it.
“Well if it’s collarbones you want, sweetie, then fill me like a cup!” Simon laid back, his narrow chest on display. You squealed in delight and clambered over me, my head beneath your belly. I heard the glug of the wine bottle, you saying “oops!” and stretching higher, and I remember the sigh he made as you licked up errant droplets from his neck.
When you bit he spasmed rather than fought. Deep and salty, I heard your moan of approval between loud, wet gulps. The pain in such a vital area held him still until it was too late.
You drank like an animal, slurping and smacking your lips to extract the most flavour. I tried to sit up and help hold him still since he’d begun to thrash, but you pressed your creamy belly into my face and pinned me there.
So I lay back and listened as your feast hit your stomach.. Soon that overrode the sound of your greedy mouth. Rushing, gurgling, sloshing… your middle was like a pop bottle half-full.
I don’t think I’d realised just how much nine pints actually is. You drank him down and the flat plane of your gut became taut and round. I could actually feel your stomach grow below your ribs with every greedy mouthful; shrink with every open-throated belch as you made space for more of his essence.
Blood that had flowed and animated bright Simon—nourished and sustained every cell of the delicate machine of his body—pooled inside the caustic confines of your stomach. His life mixed with expensive cocktails and frothing digestive juices. Even before you were done sucking the life out of him like a voracious tick, your stomach began leaking him into your intestines, painting you red in places that would never see the sun.
With a smack of your lips you announced that the feed was done. I kissed and massaged the hot tight cannonball you’d made of him and you arched your back, giving it extra prominence.
We rolled over one another, fighting to be on top. I won. We made love and you writhed beneath me, ecstatically groping your tummy, relishing each slosh of the tides my thrusts caused inside you.
When we were spent, breathing heavily and lying next to one another, you asked, “so, men or women?”
I swabbed a spec of blood from the corner of your lips. You enclosed my thumb in your lips and sucked it clean. Never any waste.
“You,” I said, stroking the diffusing mass of your tummy. “We both know. Satisfying you is the most important thing in this world.”
You smile, eyes closed, and let out a copper-scented belch. “Then get the tequila and lie back. Not done drinking yet.”