the one that got away
Sometimes, by bad luck (yours), good luck (theirs), or bad timing, a person who you attempt to seduce escapes.
I know, right? Doesn’t seem real.
It doesn’t mean they’re safe. One day you’re home, famished after a delicate evocation that lasted hours. The contents of the fridge are gone or already south of your navel. I’m away and you don’t feel like hunting.
So you think about one that got away…
Her perfume was a noseful of vanilla. She was pretty wasted and when you found her alone by the dance floor seemed pretty despondent, but the smile she gave you when you met her eyes told you she’d open up wonderfully to you. You’d come over, bought her a drink, talked briefly about why she was so low.
“You ever feel like life is just sucking everything out of you? Like you got a job and a guy and you do what everyone else does and it doesn’t matter what you want, or need?”
“I used to,” you offer. “I found a way through it.”
She stared at you with a hungry expression. “Tell me,” she demanded. “How did you make yourself get free?”
It was a feeling you had. But you knew the hunger in her eyes, kin to the hunger in yours. You took her face in your hands and kissed her.
She fought at first but her defences crumbled all at once. She kissed back with manic intensity, a spring inside her unwinding after years of tightening and tightening under strain… Soon it was like she was trying to subdue you, but you knew your work. A smooth redirect of your lips to her ear made her freeze. You nibbled and brushed the sensitive skin beneath her ear canal, focusing her whole mind with laser intensity on what you were doing. With a hand curling around the nape of her neck her fingernails clawed desperately into your back. You were unlocking something inside her that had seldom seen the light of day. Can you be blamed for allowing your kiss to wander down, drifting to where her artery wound closest to the surface? Can you imagine biting and drinking her in the middle of the club?
A rough hand on your shoulder and another on hers stopped any question of that. The interjector wasn’t looking at you.
“Laura, you’re gettin’ married in a fortnight!”
The rest of the details are unimportant. Laura was dragged away by well-meaning friends back to the weft of her life, and you were left hungry and annoyed at the edge of the dance floor.
That was then, this is now. You glance at your phone. 2am. She’ll be home.
Do you call her? Arrange a clandestine meeting? No. She never shared her phone number, any real details about herself. You know practically nothing.
But she shared her kiss. You touch your lips, and picture her as she might be right now.
Surely in bed. Almost certainly she got married—this was months ago—so she’s not alone. Vanilla, her scent, in a reed diffuser in the room. Her dirty blonde hair, left to fall naturally, would run over her pillow.
Slowly, a picture forms. Your lips feel hot. You invest them with potency, pucker up, and place your kiss.
… In a bedroom half way across the city, Laura stirs in her sleep, her lips opening as she responds to an unseen kiss. …
In your own bedroom, vanilla. Clear as day, along with the scent of her skin. You don’t remember the ones you’ve eaten—your fat remembers everything you care to know—but the living stand out. You remember how her body felt pressed against you, fresh and peckish in her naïvity. That memory feeds into this remote kiss, meets her own memory—of course she hasn’t forgot you, how could she?—and brings her alive under you mouth.
In the candlelight of your room, a flash of white. You bite her bottom lip, drag it with you a little way. In your mouth, the taste of her blood.
You smile. In that room elsewhere, Laura has startled fully awake. Perhaps she woke her husband, perhaps not. You can still feel her lips, though they fight with yours. You can still taste sweetness and metal.
Just like in the club, your hand curls around the nape of her neck. For a while you indulge yourself, kissing her in long, lazy bouts. She cannot pull away. Even if she is sitting bolt upright she still feels your tongue invading her mouth. Maybe she likes it, settling back down and touching herself, trying not to wake her husband.
Either way, your indulgence extends to your own pleasure. The free hand crests a fat-buried belly that gurgles impatiently as it waits for the life you have pinned to your mouth like a fluttering butterfly. Then it caresses your navel in a cheeky circle, before seeking hotter climes…
The hint of blood on your lips, you wander to the sensitive skin by her ear. You know how she will stiffen when you lick her there. You know how she will melt when you trail kisses down her neck to that pulse point you found before. You can feel it now, literally feel it throbbing against your lips.
You can feel it against the tips of your fangs, too.
You could paralyse her, if you wanted. The hand at the nape of her neck could sleep beneath the surface and strangle her spinal cord. Her body would be discovered peaceful yet dehydrated to the extreme.
You don’t, though. And so the throat whose flesh you are parting so deliciously with your fangs could be screaming, or it could be transfixed silent with pain. It could even be locked in masochistic ecstacy. You don’t know, or care. There is blood.
Thirty-seven degrees and 140Hgmm of pressure hits the back of your throat like percussion. The reflex to swallow sucks down that first surprise heartbeat and then you lock onto her rhythm and just let her pour herself into your stomach.
You can really feel it plain as day. She feels slightly thick, tastes less salty than you’re used to. Inside your mouth a torrent spurts and flows around your teeth, staining them red. The sharp tang of metal crosses your tongue, brought by literally billions of blood cells hurtling towards oblivion. Ready to serve you and not the body that made and that needs them.
You wish you could feel her in your arms. The struggle satisfies the lupine part of you.
Instead you have to focus on her pulse. Match it as you stroke yourself off. As her heart races your tummy swells and you flirt with climax. As her emptying system begins to falter you must begin to suck, and also play rougher with yourself since her heart slows down. Your cheeks and pussy flush with new blood. Does she make you more sensitive?
When the heart stops, you perform a magic trick. The soul is confused when it finds a heart still beating with her blood. She slips from her stiffening body and need only wander a little way into your jaws before it is too late. Your fangs pierce and hold; your mouth draws her out; your throat seals her fate. You will find a place to put her and soak her up.
Meanwhile you cum listening to the thick, wet sounds of the roiling meal inside your tummy. Jesus made wine from water: you made blood from thin air. In turmoil you grope and claw at your hot water bottle of a gut.
In one room, a body lies back and begins cooling. In another, you release the most piggish belch, signalling the assimilation of a life and the end of one who got away:
~guh-ngwoOoOuuurRRP~