gem
Thinking back, you’ve almost killed me on a number of occasions. My system now recognises shock as a friend: I can cope with losing more blood than anyone else I know.
Sometimes when you’re away, I curl up and think about this occasion, recounted as it happened.
You are as thin as I’ve ever seen you. Not emaciated, but your lines are sharp and your hands are always cold. You drank a club-goer half to death two days ago and he left a visible swell beneath your ribs. I, fascinated, timed surreptitiously how long it took for your stomach to process its contents and to drain.
Actually, what even happens? Does your stomach do much? Does the blood slip straight into your veins? You certainly get pinker after feeding…
We’re playing something. I wanna say I actually have my Mega Drive out and we’re playing Sonic 3, but I might be wrong. Your Sonic bumps into an unfairly-placed spike trap and you seem instantly to switch emotional states.
“Andrew…” you say in a speculative tone from where you’re sitting with your back against the sofa. “Do you have someone to call who might like to be tied up? Someone you won’t mind if they go missing…”
I go very still where I’m sitting on the couch. 16 bit music continues in the background. “Rey, I can’t keep feeding you my friends. When Freya went missing it was a big thing…”
How naïve I was. I trail off as I stare into your eyes. Coldness and warmth vie for space. It’s clear you don’t give a damn about the life you’re demanding and that fact makes my heart beat faster. The warmth, though: where does it come from?
“I’m going to drink from you, and I’m going to drink someone dry.” As you speak your hands climb me, till you’re holding my face to yours with a palm either side. Your eyes flutter close and you kiss me, your tongue forcing its way into my mouth. You’re a touch cold but you fill me with heat, and by the time you break the kiss and stare into my eyes again, I’m breathing harder. “Your choice.”
I shakily as I pull out my phone and make some calls. You laugh as you crawl over me and plant kisses all over, calling me your Deliveroo, your Just Eat, your snack.
You’re cute as hell when you’re murderous.
Little Gem has the taut, excitable energy of someone who is damaged. I told you that I’d previously refused to let her bite me because she’d said she didn’t know when to stop, and you just laughed. You stopped when a tummy rumble kicked out an unexpected pocket of gas like a burp, then looked sheepish.
She and I talk boundaries and limits I have no intentions of resurrecting. You make up some limits, all the while staring at her. Definitely short, curvy verging on plump, she dresses young with blonde pigtails like she’s trying to recapture a childhood that was taken from her.
She looks back at you, too, unsure but excited at the sight of you, your intensity.
We tie her together.
The act is quite beautiful, actually. There is no pattern. We each double-column a wrist and proceed as seems best. We both agree that her arms belong behind her and our rope weaves in and out of one another’s. From there you explore her legs, stitching them together into a kneeling position while I secure the arms to her chest. She likes right rope across her breasts, and I cut hers in half with deep slashes of tension.
“Mmm, yellow, I can’t open my legs,” she says, when you’ve locked her knees together. She had shyly indicated that she would like sexual attention from either or both of us.
You answer, “I want you to watch first, like a good girl. Then I’ll take you.”
She squirms in place. Her bonds creak slightly but she can’t break free. “You’re in charge, then?”
“Andrew,” you command, by way of answer and demonstration, “gag her.”
Silent and restrained, she bears witness to what we do.
You surprise me. When I stand to set aside the rope you guide me to stand where you’re kneeling and sink your mouth all around me. I inhale sharply at the sensation. I’m not fully hard but you bring me there swiftly, weighting me on your exploring tongue and squashing me against the roof of your mouth. I get the distinct impression I am not being featured but instead experimented with.
Little arteries feed your mouthful. You can feel then with the tip of your tongue, beating faster when you swallow by virtue of the way you make my heart race. I’m now velvet-wrapped metal, hot and heavy on your tongue.
You watch my face dissolve from growing passion to sudden fear when you shear through one of the little arteries. I reflexively grab the hair on one side of your head but hold myself rigid. You remain relaxed. You knew I would fight down any self-protecting impulse for you.
So you let my blood pool in your mouth around my cock. And when you weigh a mouthful, you swallow. The sensation of your tongue moving against my flesh but not for my pleasure makes my knees go weak: I almost drop.
Mouthful of sweet, hot blood coursing dish your throat you squish me against your palate. Curiously just as hard, despite bleeding for you.
You pull back so Gem can witness the way my blood shines on my cock. Then I’m gone again, filling your mouth.
You go for a minute, mouthful after slow mouthful slipping luxuriously down your throat, experimenting with how little pleasure your can give while keeping me hard.
After a minute, though, your stomach speaks with a sharp voice: ~grrrrk-krrrrkh~ Gem and I both look at it, her shocked, me enthralled to be your appetiser.
With a hand on my shoulder and one behind my knee, you guide me to crouch, then sit, then lie on my back with head pointed towards Gem. All the while you continue sucking, slowly, collecting your iron due.
Now I’m down you release, if only to let a low belch roll over me. A crawling change of position lets you swing your knee over my face, keeping yours near the wellspring of your slow meal.
Gem sees your perfect bottom hovering over me, the narrow sculpture of your body receding into the distance. Sees you abandon that cock and move your face to my inner thigh. Sees my sudden pain-spasm coincide perfectly with your bum’s descent.
You bite me and simultaneously stifle my cries with your fragrant pussy. I settle right down even though my heart is forcing blood through twin jets into your wide-open throat. Gem and I can hear you swallowing like Victorian plumbing, desperately trying to contain the glut.
This is it. This is what life is for. You know me well so you know the taste of my blood but taste doesn’t do a mouthful justice. You know the heft of my blood, know how I run fast and smooth along your smooth hard palate. Know the feeling of heat sinking into your middle.
That middle begins to grow as you suck down my life like a pale and beautiful leech. We can both feel it grow between us. You press harder against me, desperate to feel your stomach’s internal contours. Meanwhile I lap at and explore your womanhood, alternating between plunging my tongue among your folds and rocking against your clit, depending on what makes you squirm or shiver the most.
Your starved stomach stretches so beautifully. The pain is golden, wrapped around its crimson contents. You couldn’t drink another bite and you can’t bear not to suck down my blood from my heart. A deep, primal part of you screams at you to take everything, taste everything, own everything…
You lick the wound hurriedly closed and clench your teeth against the spasm of need deferred. You still have use for me; you want to eat me differently; you want to keep me around. The primal part doesn’t care and it rages. Just two more pints. Sink your teeth in where the pulse squirms like a captive animal.
You sit up and crush me beneath your pussy. I haven’t breathed in ninety seconds and half my oxygenated blood is chyme. You ride my face as the stars take over and I pass out.
You cum and I almost yield my spirit into your cunt. You buck against my face like you’re trying to erase it, secretly hoping I do give up the ghost. We both feel the dangerous proximity of my death. Then your orgasm is spent and you allow my shining face air again.
You don’t check that I’m breathing. Can’t, in fact. No brain space. You abandon my near-corpse and crawl on all fours towards Gem. Your face drips my blood and, behind you, I fit from lack of oxygen. She knows she is going to die.
She does. Beautifully. A hand clenched in her hair and a yank serves to expose the throat and your beautiful fangs do the rest. Three matched pairs of holes blossom and she, too, almost passes out from the first draught. But she’s young and her system adapts. Thus, her body is going to deliver heartbeats directly into your throat. Your gullet becomes a new vessel, your stomach a new heart, though it beats only for you.
She’s small so how can she contain enough to almost tear a hole in you? When she is dead and you wake to find yourself ruttishly chewing into her fleshy cheeks you feel pain so acute it makes you dizzy. In fact you drop your hold on her head, leaving her to slump forward, then sprawl backwards, limbs starfished, panting. The tiniest glorp from your stomach threatens retaliation if anything further passes within. You’re inclined to agree.
My body has settled down. My breathing is rapid but stable. My heart flutters but blood moves. I’ll live to feed you another day.