(this was inspired by three things -- that mistaken interpretation of her poem about truth, that night at the German bar, and the brilliant surrealistic story she posted at the end of the summer of 2011. This is magic realism but pales in comparison to her piece. I can't do what she does in prose, but come close in some of my poetry.)
It stirs from her lips, her hips, her breasts, churned up,
her cheeks red from some bout of lovemaking that makes me all that much more
crazy for my wanting that, too.
I hear her blood, hot blood, blood I can almost taste for
its scent, only I’m do not how to get at it, she is as remote as a Greek goddess.
We see each other only in public places like this, seated at
her desk on the third floor or across the table in the meeting room, always under
the scrutiny of others – too many nosy people already suspicious, all ready to
expose even the faintest irregularity, in him, in her, or anybody.
Then, she looks across the table at me as if seeing me for
the first time, a spark in her eyes, stirring up my blood this time.
I lick my lips and stare deep into those eyes, swirling
around as if in moss agate, shapes of things there I do not suspect to find.
She is far from stupid and things, about me, dangerous
things other don’t know, and she is attracted.
“Would you like to get a drink?” she asks me, sounding so
innocent I’m baffled again.
Drink of what? Does
she know what she is saying? Is she offering it freely to me?
In ancient times, my kind relied on the church to provide
virgins, whose blood tastes pure. These days, my kind has to settle for what we
can find, flavoring our diet with something different if not pure.
And I can already taste it, line fine wine, a vintage maybe
not as rare as in the past, but with its own attractions.
“Where?” I ask, hoping some place private, some place where we
can get down to it, where I can sip from her uninterrupted by the snoopy
society.
I’m a little disappointed when she mentions the bar down the
street from where we sit.
And at the bar, she studies me closely again, suspicious,
her instincts telling her things about me, perhaps things I don’t even know
about myself, this weakness, this ache to get more from her than just another
sip of blood.
I’m nervous, glancing around, aware of others in the bar,
not all of them unfamiliar, we all part of some odd collective of familiarity,
faces we see to whom we can put no name, and yet recognize each other in
passing.
I wait, a quaking hunter, looking for the right moment to
pounce, realizing it when she says she needs to go outside for a smoke, and I
follow her out, my teeth aching like the wolf in the woods on the track of
Little Red Ridinghood.
Oh, how sharp these teeth are!
Outside, she sucks in smoke and stares into the remoteness
of the dark, her thoughts caught on something far away, and so, when she is
distracted, a steal a kiss on her lips, and then, a nip on her neck, drawing a
dribble of blood. I lick it up. It is very much as sweet as I imagined it would
be, and I want more.
She shudders, her long fingers reaching to the place of her wound,
touching the blood, looking at the drops dripping from her forefinger, her a
bewildered expression coming to her face.
Is she pleased or pissed?
I can’t tell, and she won’t say.
She just hurries back inside, where at the bar, she starts
to talk to someone else, someone we both know, someone who seems puzzled at the
fact that we are here together.
Yet, she looks at me out of the corner of her eyes, scared
maybe, certainly alarmed.
But the taste of blood had set my blood to boil, and I can’t
stop lusting after her, a pang as deep as any I have ever felt, even in my
reckless youth when I sucked as much as I could find and was still unfulfilled.
After a time, she seems less put off, maybe even attracted,
the way innocent women get attracted to dangerous men, knowing we can hurt
them, knowing we will likely cause them pain, and yet for some mysterious reason,
needing to play on the edge of it, a dance of defiance.
When I suggest we go to her place, she nods in a distracted
way.
“Will it hurt?” she asks.
“Not in the way you think,” I say. “You might even like it.”
Her fingers rise to her neck, touching the place where my nip
drew blood.
“Will I die?” she asks.
“I would never take things as far as that.”
“Will I turn into someone like you?”
“You could,” I admit. “Would that bother you?”
She does not reply. She simply gets up and I follow, out to
the street, out to her car for the short drive in silence to the place where
she lives, then up the stairs and into her apartment, where I sit on the couch
and she says she needs to change, only she doesn’t come out from the other room
right away.
“Are you okay” I ask.
“No,” she says, still not visible. “I’ve changed my mind. I
think you should go.”
“What if I promise I won’t hurt you?”
“I don’t believe that,” she says. “I don’t want to be alone
with you.”
When she appears, the blood has drained from her face and
she looks more like a vampire than I do.
“Please go,” she says, sensing the intensity of my desire,
the deep hunger I can no longer hide, the lust for blood I’ve already tasted
and need to taste again.
“What if I promise I’ll only fuck you,” I ask.
“You would be satisfied with that?”
“I want that nearly as much,” I say, imaging what it’s like
to touch her, to run my lips down her long neck, to ease my tongue into her
welcoming mouth, to have her breasts pressed against my chest as I plunge my cock
deep into her pussy.
“But will that be enough?” she asks.
“I don’t want it to be,” I admit. “But if that’s all you’re
offering, I’ll have to be satisfied.”
Although I know, I won’t be, know I’m already disappointed.
She sits next to me on the couch, and I kiss her lips
softly, and then as I imagined, run my lips down her neck, passed the wound my
nip gave her, down to her breasts, and I suck on the tip of one, then the
other, drawing out liquid that is not yet blood, and then sink one tooth into
that tender flesh and draw blood, but not a lot, and no more painful as to
cause her to retreat. I run my lips down, pausing at her belly button, and then
get into the mix between her legs, the taste of her wet pussy nearly as potent
as her blood, dripping into my mouth as I lick her click, circling the little
nub with the tip of my tongue and when I’m about to plunge in, she stops me.
“Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“I have my period,” she says looking down at me as I kneel
at her feet, her legs to either side of me.
I smile.
“Perfect!”
I plunge in, lapping it up, but aching for more, rising
slightly, pressing my chest against her chest, my lips against her lips, as I
thrust my cock into the deep darkness where my mouth had been, riding her,
forcing moans out of her as we go in and out, in and out, her cunt closing
around my cock as if we have bonded completely, a single entity of pure joy neither
of us wants to abandon.
But being who I am, wanting what I want, I am not satisfied,
waiting for that moment when she cries out with passion and cums, to plunge my teeth
into the vein of her neck, as deep and passionate embrace as that which goes on
between our legs, my cum filling up those dark places below as I feed from her,
sucking deeply her essence into my mouth, her moans telling me she likes this,
too, and wants it as much as I do, trading off her blood for the gift of cum I
give her.
When I fall to one side sated, she touches her neck where my
teeth had been, her fingers covered with her own blood, testing it with the tip
of her tongue, then putting her bloody fingers into my mouth.
“I feed you,” she says.
“I know,” I say, and cum inside her again.
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