~ a moment of terror ~
There is something about that first feeling as it passes over your lips. Something about that first drop on your tongue. That first taste. The fullness of the liquid. The salted sting of it as it flows from someone else and into you.
It is a powerful notion, a powerful moment, when the blood of another crosses your lips.
He laid in my arms, young, pretty. He was just becoming a man, just turning into something more than annoying. That's why I chose him. All that promise. All that potential. I knew it would make him even more delicious to consume.
He rode his motorcycle at night, on old forgotten roads where he could embrace his need for the wind rushing over his skin and the thrill of pushing his bike to its limit.
I made sure to appear to breakdown my car on that rode, late at night, with no one around. I made sure I wore something to attract him, something alluring, revealing, enticing. I made sure I had my syringe at the ready, and the knife nearby, for when it was time.
He stopped, ever the good Samaritan, and asked me if I needed help. And when I said I did, he did something even more remarkable. He threatened to rape me.
Said he wanted a fee for his generosity. Said nice hot piece of ass like me on a dark rode like this needed protection against the darker elements of this world. Said he'd be just the guy to help me out, provided I helped him out first.
His words would make the kill that much sweeter.
I took my shirt off for him, let him see the goods, pulled him in closer. He was young, handsome, and stupid. When his lips found my neck, I found it more than ironic the fate that soon awaited him.
My syringe found his neck and he fell into my arms.
When he awoke, a few hours later, we were far from where he was last conscious.
We were still outside, but now he was the one disrobed. On the ground. His hands bound. I left his mouth free to scream, his eyes free to see. I wanted him to see, wanted him to watch as I approached.
I showed him the blade. I'm sure it was nothing to his surprisingly hardened eyes. One little nick and the blood trickled from his neck. He struggled as my lips found his flesh, lapped up his blood, sucked the life force out of him.
Soon, though, his voice grew weak. His struggling eased and then stopped. His body grew cold.
It always is a little sad when they turn cold, once beautiful and still quite stunning, but lacking the warmth that is life, that is the essence of them.
For now his essence was inside me, churning in my belly, giving me his power, his allure, his youth.
So young, so stupid, so sweet for me taste tonight. I would gladly have drank from him forever were it possible, but this woman always has too great an appetite.
Dead Pestilence: A Word or Two on Roger Ailes - I hope Roger Ailes died screaming. I hope he felt every sensation of pain from the subdural hematoma he suffered; I hope that the shocks wracked his worn-o...