allison the unicorn

There’s barely room on the couch for the three of us.

Normally when a unicorn joins a couple they are the centre of attention. Allison would be sitting in the middle and we would be touching and kissing her. But in your home you are queen. We are consorts, or perhaps houris in your harem. Our hands explore and shape the many soft rolls your graceful body forms. They appear and disappear as you turn to each of us and kiss, or murmur something, or feel us in turn.

I’m kind of surprised she’s made it this far, to be honest. When we met her for dinner you had a chicken salad—approximately a twentieth of your preferred calorie intake. She had the veal. When you asked if she worried that veal was cruel she stared at the morsel on her fork and declared, “food is food.” While she chewed we exchanged a look.

For my part I had something involving squash. If I must eat in your presence I tend to go veggie. It was good! I really rate Kendall’s Bistro.

She is speaking. Her eyes on your burgundy lips, she sounds like someone excited and afraid to be proved wrong. “Vampires aren’t real, though.”

“Here. I’ll show you.”

You lift my hand, which was shamelessly cupping your breast and rolling it like bao dough, and being it to your lips. I inhale sharply as you bite. So does Allison. She saw your fangs pierce skin, and saw blood well up before your lips enclosed it all.

A feigned swallow sounds different to a throatful of liquid. Allison watches and hears your throat bob and grows pale. Critically, though, her hands stay on your body. As you drink off a swift, hot couple of pints from me, you push her by cupping her chin and stroking her cheek. She does not move away.

You make a show of swiping the wound with your tongue. Three licks are required to lap the blood away but the wound closes after the first. You filter a petite burp out through your nose and lick your lips while staring her in the eye.

She’s mute. I demonstrate that my wrist is unscratched and she asks me, “does it hurt?”

“Every time,” I say, cheerfully. “Raven’s worth it.”

“Food is food,” you say, and feel her shiver next to you.

I place my hand over hers, pressing it to a shelf of rib fat. “Would you like to, ah, offer her a little of yourself too?”

She looks between the two of us. Understandably, your mouth holds her attention most. You wisely keep your fangs tucked out of sight.

“… Okay.”

Well, out of sight until now. Your grin is half warm, half devilish. You like it when you are fed. “Good girl,” you say, and she shivers again next to you.

Just like with me, you sieze her wrist. Her heart is pounding by the time she gets her kiss on the pulse point. You lick. It actually takes willpower not to cram her arm inside and just start taking the whole person.

But you content yourself with the quick paring of skin and flesh. She gives a brief yelp and raises her other hand involuntarily, but quickly gets back control. With fascination she watches you sip small mouthfuls of her blood.

She is sweeter than me, but also thicker. I’m perennially playing blood-count catch-up; she’s never even donated. Allison has so much body it makes you want to chew. Floral notes brighten the high end of her palate. Hormones. She is almost due her period.

She settles somewhere beneath your ribs. My exploring hand guides her free one to your stomach. No way can she feel it filling up but the message is clear. Then, as you drink from your other prey, my hand continues over the swell of your belly and thighs. Then it rises, taking with it the hem of your dress. You moan but do not stop as I begin to caress your cunt.

“Do we taste different?” I murmur. Immediately you break your feed, halting it with a thumb over her wound, and kiss me. You share the taste of her blood, then lance my lip with your teeth and let me taste my own.

I’m earthy. Bassy. On your tongue I taste her sweetness but have no hope of discerning the detail you do. Long years and altered biology makes our veins sing to you.

You begin to drink from her again, then seal it for real and bite into the artery on the crook of my elbow. Allison, caught up in the eroticism of your nature, hurries to touch you like I have. Her quick hand seeks out the places you are sensitive, delving into you but staying shallow where she can grind against the sensitive walls.

There’s barely room for three of us on the couch but we make do. We overlap. For the rest of the evening you bite and feed, and we bleed and fuck you. I kneel. You make her beg you to sink your fangs into her throat because you withhold an orgasm she has chased since you first tasted her. In the end we’re both pale and exhausted and you’re pleasantly sloshily full, warm and content.