laura is so giving
You’re busy in your books again. I’m worried, so I try to keep busy too.
The Arabic diagram keeps defeating me but I can write the name of God, now, so there’s that. And what is the significance of all those numbers? 7 14 112 17? Searching the Web brings up Qur’an translations, at least after the sites about Pampers nappies… But is that really the Arabic symbol for addition, underlining the name of Allah?
Wouldn’t that be a jaunt. Even your ambition surely wouldn’t extend to adding a god to your waistline.
I rephrase: Surely that is not the intended interpretation of the original author.
… No, that’s not the mark for addition, after all.
I’ve been doing this for what feels like hours. I rest my head in my hands and massage my temples. Out of superstition I have kept the source material to one machine and never speak out loud anything I translate. Soon I’ll go for a run. Healthy body, healthy mind, and all that.
While I rest my eyes I think back to another time you left me to my own devices. The sensation is like being a stopped clock. I wait to tick again, but at least the spring is still wound up: I feel this gorgeous sensation of being at your mercy.
I rest, and remember.
We were visiting the Cotswolds. Since our very first date was a hiking trip that ended in a fast food binge I was still under the mistaken impression that you relished climbing bumpy landscapes. Come to think of it, this was the last such trip we took. You must have explained the truth to me!
It is two weeks since you taught me I could hunt. I haven’t had a nightmare for two days. Progress! You hold me when I have a bad nightmare. In some ways it feels like a transformation of my own.
We stay in a medium size town outside the actual wolds, meaning there’s a nightlife. You drag me out, literally by the arm, smiling the smile that says you’re done with the restrained meals you’ve allowed me to prepare for you. My heart pounds and I follow you out. How could I say no?
You’re so goddamned magnetic in a bar. This time I’m watching for it: the moment you transition from intense, focused Raven to loose-limbed, approachable, voluble Rey.
It actually happens as you step over the threshold. Your shoulders relax and you grab my hand in a big squeeze that could mean lover, could mean close friend, depending on what you want your eventual meal to believe. You make eye contact with eight people who look up, holding each just long enough to say, “yes, I see you”. In this day and age, isn’t that all anyone wants? No wonder people lose their hearts to you.
Among other things.
As we head to the bar you throw me a tiny smirk.
“What?”
“You were watching me again.”
“Aren’t I always?”
“You’re trying to understand me~” You lean up and give me a peck on the cheek. “You know you won’t ever manage it.” Your eyes are hooded in the spotlighting near the bar. You otch your bum onto a padded barstool and I see glints of red in the shadow. “You just don’t have enough time.”
The barman raises his chin in acknowledgement and you turn. The tease is left hanging in air. You’re in character.
She’s a hippie, or would have been if she’d been born earlier. Garnets in her fan earrings and nose stud, and dyed-white dreadlocks. Far too exotic for a town like this but then so are you.
The three of us talk and drink. She and I hit it off intellectually, growing wanky about connection in society, a book called Story of the Eye (which appears to involve piss and eggs and to be very French), and the underlying oneness of all things according to Spinoza. You let us talk for a while, sipping your rum and coke, making the occasional comment and well-judged eye contact.
Oneness lets you draw the conversation in a direction you want. “But I mean, it’s a nice idea that everything is one substance—Spinoza’s idea of God—and only negated into different forms, but it’s… not true.”
I open my mouth to reply, an argument in favour of that most personable philosopher, but bite back my own words. It’s nice to chat bollocks, but that’s not why we’re out.
Instead, Laura gets to speak. Her dangly earrings spin and catch the low lights as she cocks her head to one side. “Why so certain? Have you met Spinoza’s God?”
“He wasn’t around where I grew up,” you say. Laura laughs like it’s a joke and you smile. Her garnets quite complement your lip shade. “I won’t try to convince you from what I’ve seen but, like, opposites exist. Heat melts ice. Darkness swallows light.”
“Just substances dreaming,” she says, with a broad, fond smile that creases one of her eyes. “Melted ice is still water. The darkness is brighter afterwards.”
“Predator and prey, then,” you say, casting about for a way to explain your point that isn’t, I have drowned and destroyed spirits and can promise there is nothing left of them when I am done. “The prey is gone. More than gone. The predator uses their body to consume more of the prey’s kind. No part of the prey wants that. Their will is… obliterated.”
Laura leans back in her chair. You painted a vivid image and she’s staring over your head picturing it and trying to come up with a counter-example.
You decide to bring her right back to earth. With your hand on her knee and your voice low enough she has to lean forward, you say, “We aren’t the same, you and I. When we touch, it’s not like when you touch yourself.”
She stares into your eyes, blue into your dark red. You see her breathing speed up, though the background music masks her spiking heart rate.
“Touch is important to me,” she says slowly, like she’s delivering a secret. “All sensations are. It’s how I feel connected. I’m very… tactile.” She sits back. Her gaze flutters over your body before she can suppress the impulse. “Maybe Spinoza was wrong. But tell me. Are you predator, or prey?”
Behind you I choke on my Old Fashioned. You, though, don’t miss a beat. “Isn’t it more fun to find out for yourself?”
It isn’t long before you leave. You simply drain your drink and stand with your hand under her elbow. As you both walk away she turns to cast me a look, mixing surprise, apology, excitement, and I think a little bit of fear. There’s an element of anxiety in excitement, but I think she is reacting to the suddenly loss of control.
Even if she weren’t prey beforehand, this is the moment she becomes it.
I watch you leave without a backwards glance.
Her flat is a short walk away. Since connection is so important to her you drop her elbow to hold her hand. You both talk little but your joined hands speak volumes, stroking one another’s palms or squeezing or subtly taking the dominant front hold.
You follow up some external steps to first floor flat. While she searches for her keys you stand close enough her backside presses lightly into you. Your fingertips trace lightly up and down her back, drawing a soft sigh from her.
The door swings open. Patchouli envelops you both in welcome. Her hand seeks yours and draws you in her wake to a living room crowded with mementoes, souvenirs and charms.
“Alexa, gentle lighting.”
You weren’t expecting a woman your pegged as a hippy to have Alexa, but it does mean there is no distraction preventing her from sweeping you up in her arms and kissing you.
Touch is connection for her, and that works fine for you. Her kiss is not a reckless assault. Instead she invites you to feel the softness and warmth of her lips before teasing them apart and sharing a deeper heat. Her hand on your cheek sends tingles down your neck.
Your stomach makes its intention known in a sullen growl but it’s overruled and if Laura hears it she doesn’t let on. You let your fingers feast on her, though. The hand that fell naturally on her hip teases a dip towards the tie of her culottes causing her to wriggle, but you divert upwards, over her little belly and glancing over one breast to cup the back of her neck possessively. There you extract another sigh as you guide her into a more forceful kiss. She is sensuous and delicate, whereas you let your hunger rise, show her how you take what you want.
What you want involves grabbing her arse and enjoying its soft give beneath your clawed fingers. She squeaks and laughs. The spell you were both weaving on one another abates a little while she speaks and you picture biting into the fat and muscle you just weighted up.
“Can I get you a drink?” she asks, smiling, still only inches from your lips.
“Whisky,” you answer. “Bourbon if you have it.”
She slips away with a smile cast over her shoulder. You look around your room. So much here… she has been so many places, with so many friends. A lion’s or spirit’s head carved from dark wood sternly watches her whole living room from its place on the wall. Sand mandalas in glass cylinders intersperse themselves between jade statuettes, a springbok’s horn, a pewter icon of dancing Kali. The rest of the room is like that, with fossils, calligraphy, model cars or people bent out of wire and beaded. A woven cloth tapestry adorns one wall, hung from a wooden pole mounted flat to the wall opposite the mask.
And the photos. So many of them, with a dozen or two people or just Laura herself. Blue skies, adventure gear, rafting, white-out snow. Christmas dinner with family. Laura has built a shrine to her own life and invited you into it.
The low couch does not face any TV. Books and a Kindle nestle on the shelf nearest to it. Folded up atop the couch is a gorgeous scarlet blanket chased through with swirling white wool made to look like fur. It is an awesomely luxurious item, the one thing in this room that is meant for comfort and cuddles.
When Laura reappears with two glasses she finds you sitting on the blanket—basically the size of a duvet—and trying to unclasp your bra behind you. It’s the last article you’re wearing.
“Take off your clothes and join me,” you command the woman in her own home. “I want to see what you mean by ’tactile’.”
The bra is undone in time to free a hand for the glass. You sip something golden and warming while curled up on your legs and watching Laura undress.
No awkward, joky strip-tease for you! Laura undresses like she’s listening to music, swaying as she lifts her top over her head. The stroke of fabric is made a caress by the way she visibly slows and attends it. You long to touch where it is touching.
You long also to bite the flesh that is revealed, let the current beneath spring to the surface and just soak her up.
When the bra is gone and the culottes begin to come down you crawl over like a cat, staring at her intently enough to stop the music playing in her head. She jerkily steps out of the dropped fabric in time for you to rear up and clamp your teeth around… the hem of her panties. Blue watercolor floral fabric perfumed with the clear scent of her excitement trails down pleasingly developed thighs. Your teeth relinquish her panties at about knee height so your hands can a wrap them around her feet.
Laura shrieks when you tug her towards you on the scarlet blanket. Her underwear catches her feet, preventing her from balancing.
But you’re there for her. She topples with enough delay you can, with hands and feet, catch her above you before she hits the ground.
She begins to make a protest which you silence with a kiss.. She goes wide-eyes and melts into it like you’re sucking the fight right out of her.
As you kiss and run one hand up and down her figure, your other hand seizes the edge of the blanket. You pull it to her back and, using a trick I’ve recently showed you, turn her from above to beside. The blanket comes with, and another roll seals you both together.
The living room is gone. There is only your lover and meal, body pressed against you in the dark, and a narrow universe of soft wool.
You saw how pretty pink and ready she was at eye level when you took away her underwear. Your joint arousal fills your little chamber with the animal scent of sex and anticipation.
Anticipation you both allow to grow. Every motion in the chamber is amplified. It’s not just her hand stroking your inner thigh, it’s the blanket tightening around your arse and pulling her closer to you as well. It’s not just her kissing your breast, but her thigh is forced to grind between your legs. And when you buck your hips against that, greedy for more, her posture is collapsed so her whole body presses its curves to yours.
You growl and work your hands to her shoulders. What she’s doing with her lips on your neck feels wonderful but your desire is a lit fuse burnt short. You don’t know how long you can hold off feeding and you want her to make you cum before that.
Pressure at those shoulders initiates a full-body massage with one another’s bodies. You especially like the sensation of her tits gliding all the way down your whip-thin body. She has gorgeous breasts. You luxuriate in the way they flatten against your hips as you push her down almost to the place you crave her.
Her warm, generous lips blossom around your clit like a rosebud. The small circles she presses against you send lightning around your tummy. A fingertip meanwhile circles and explores the sweet opening to your vagina. You moan, a sound completely out of your control to stop.
It’s not enough. Her slow, building connection meets with the all-consuming fire of your desire and is consumed. You have to have her.
A shuffle of your hips entangles her shoulders and two hands tangled in her hair pull her face tight into your pussy. Maybe she makes a muffled protest behind sealed airways but if she does it’s completely swallowed up by your jubilant, desperate groan.
She fights to free herself from your hands and thighs but can find no purchase. Her face slickly tracks between your pussy lips as you masturbate with it.
She is going to suffocate like this. But then she opens her mouth to lick you. The sensation sets of a cascading sequence of shudders and makes you inclined to let her breathe. Through her freed nose she takes a deep breath, but at your insistence, her mouth is still busy.
This feels right. Full-body touching was wonderful, beautiful… but right now almost all of Laura is crammed into one place, right where you want her, sending hammer-blows of pleasure up and down your body. She’s even getting into it. The former tease at your vagina becomes a two-digit finger-fucking as she settles into the role of sex toy. Her tongue frantically laps at your whole cunt. You probably don’t need to keep hold of her hair, now, but the feeling of control is sweet.
Like a thunderclap you cum. The blanket almost comes undone when you spasm into a sitting-up position. Laura loses breathing privileges again but, good girl, continues to lick and fuck you even while she drowns.
Another orgasm prolongs the torture. You feel her attentions begin to slow as the panic builds. By the time your third orgasm rolls around she is actively fighting you. “Mmph! Mmmmmph!”
“One more…” you breathe, mostly to yourself, and rock your hips on your lover’s face, smearing her with your juices.
She passes out before you cum. You feel her go limp and that sets you off. In defiance of the normal order of things it’s the longest yet. Your orgasm nearly kills her.
Reflex kicks her oxygen-starved lungs into action when you schlick her airways free. She begins to stir soon after.
Moving quickly, you pass her up above you then roll the predator-and-prey burrito so you’re on top. The first thing she sees when she opens her eyes is the red highlights in yours, catching light from no early source.
“Hello, lover.”
“Wh’ was tha’?”
“I felt the connection.”
Darkness solidifies around your shoulderblades. Your tendrils thread around her wrists and push them above her head, safely out of the way. Laura’s expression of terror is so extreme it almost makes you laugh.
“What’s going on?”
“I want to touch you. All over.”
Soft kisses trail down her throat to her breast. You couldn’t get the image of them out of your head. You still can’t. You open your mouth and lick her nipple inside. Your hands trail sensuously up her body, to her throat.
“Raven I’m scared. Stop it.”
“If I had all the time in the world I’d undo you,” you say, voice thick around the tit you’re playing with. “Take your body. Its energy. Use it to hunt down every person in every pictureframe. Eat them too.”
Laura goes rigid under you. She doesn’t know which way is up, right now. “Nnnn— no.”
One tendril throws a soft loop around her neck in anticipation of needing to silence her. Things are about to get loud.
“Welcome, Laura. Come inside.”
Your claws dig in. Your jaws close around a deep gobbet of fat. The sound of her scream is allowed to continue for one full breath and then the tendril shuts it down, leaving her gasping for air as she fights to scream again.
Hot, blubbery flesh eases onto your tongue. You chew a few times. Like foie gras her breast is rich, flavoursome. Could maybe be paired with salt or sweetness.
Your claws help with that. Eight lines score deep into beautiful skin, causing eight lines of blood to full your whole world with redness. Laura thrashes impotently as your tongue eases apart two cut walls of skin and gathers a quarter-mouthful of her blood. Salt.
Then it’s back to the breast, same wound as before, pushing your teeth deeper inside to pull out another mouthful.
Your mouth floods with saliva. She’s delicious this way.
At some point you will frenzy. You’re kind of seeing how long it will be till slowly biting and chewing your prey while bathing in a trickle of her blood becomes more than you can stand.
You have to tear the wound wider to reach more fat. That last mouthful caught shreds of pectoral muscle.
Her other breast is shaking when you reach it. She’s sobbing. One breast is easily more than a days calories but who’s counting? Sometimes you have to treat yourself. Your fangs rip her open and she loses another part of herself to the inside of your mouth.
Bloodlust rises. You’re licking more often, biting less. You force yourself to consume her other breast, even as you shudder with pleasure to feel your stomach press against her weakly struggling body, feel the slight tack of wet and drying blood every time you both touch.
Symmetry. You trail down her body, nails of one hand continuing to slice all the way down. The scent of her blood is so thick it may as well be heroin in the air.
The femoral artery has more raw blood flow than the carotid, if you can pierce it. You can pierce it. But as your lust-shaken lips pass her own unfairly neglected cunny you hesitate to pass it.
Just one, then. One lick goodbye. With the tenderness Laura will never display again you part her pussy lips with your tongue. Though her body is shutting down her flavour is still fresh and pleasing. Your tongue swipes up, up, up, until her hooded clit rides on its tip.
Your lips close over it and you suck. Harder. Harder still. It’s impossible to really draw too much out but you’re going to try, for her.
When you have a mouthful of her flesh you close your eyes. Your jaw tingles with anticipation. After this you will drink from a fount so rapid it will likely spray all over your face. Then when she dies with your mouth on her, her soul will flee this tortured body so quickly it will practically swim down your throat.
Laura is so giving.
You begin to close your jaws. Gently at first.