On a bright day it’s finally warm enough to sit outside a cafe. This one has little timers that come with the single-serve teapots. When they go off, you have to pour. The manager explained this to us, during which I was curiously quiet. Allison is with us. Her cheeks are ruddy in the cold, which is a good sign of recovery after two bleedings not too long after one another.

I come back from checking on Allison (blood loss still a concern) to find you in the kitchen, preparing drinks. Looks like old fashioneds, but I see two bottles of bitters. I come up behind you. You let out a deep and satisfied hmmmm as I slip my arms around your middle. My wingspan is huge but my fingertips barely touch unless I squish your belly. I squish it now.

Such cleaning as needed to happen is done. Your living room is in order and the dishes are tomorrow’s concern. The fire is still going, throwing out its halogen-bulb orange light that nevertheless brings a feeling of cosiness to a room. The long-suffering couch beneath you bears your weight manfully. Your butt and back mash it into a custom-moulded receptacle. Within you, your stomach seems to have worked on dinner enough that the sudden crashes and lingering burps have been replaced with the low, constant purring of a practiced gut hard at work.

“I want her.” “Blood,” I say, stroking her thigh to encourage it to turn out and show you the soft inside where the artery runs. Her pussy nearby is achingly exposed and ready. “More courses to come. Bite. Drink. Keep her around. I have plans.” You stare at me, undecided, and then all of a sudden, orgasm hits you like a thunderclap. A belch forces its way out. You rock your hips on the poor woman’s face like you’re trying to stub her out.

Upon the dining room table that has been moved to the centre of the room, Allison lies naked on her back. Eyes straight up, she bears many small dishes upon her person, each prepared for you. On her stomach lies a narrow slate, on which are slices of what looks like marinated beef dressed with a glossy, dark sauce. Her shoulders carry circular plates of fried gyoza, the source of the ginger scent.

Well, that first night. Allison was equal parts distraught and gripped by the most potent lust she had ever experienced in her life. I don’t know if you’ll understand the thrill of looking into someone’s eyes and seeing their radical desire for your whole being. But I know what your gaze did to her. That first night. You caught her animal kiss and devoured her resistance. She was swept upstairs and all I can say is it’s a good job I’d cooked because with the noises you two were making I could tell you were half in frenzy.

Allison and I naturally spend a lot of time together that night. I bring water, toast, sweet weak tea. She is bright enough for a baked potato at lunchtime. I share my iron supplements. You would not believe the dose I’m on. God, come to think of it, where does it all go? You must have ingots of iron inside you. I’ve just googled. When you suck someone dry you might be consuming three-and-a-half grams of iron.

I wake first. My everything hurts. Especially my eyes, which feel the sunlight like large pebbles pressing against them. My body spent the night desperately trying to sustain itself. My vitality—sugars, fats, immune agents, hormonal regulation, oxygen transport—everything my body needed is probably right now flowing through your veins, or perhaps thickened like black pudding in your intestines. After a full minute trying to focus I realise the blur next to me on your bed is not you, but Allison.

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.

It would have been a shame to waste the cosy blood high that George gave you. At the time you lived nearby, so you simply went home, curled up with a glass of wine and a book, and listened to him gurgle serenely as your stomach combed through his remains. Occasionally you swallowed air for the guilty pleasure of eliciting a burp. Whatever was happening in the cauldron of your stomach caused his flavour to sweeten over time.