Friday, April 20, 2007
Dark thick night
Don’t fight me my prey, I will take your life even if you try and fight the light. Body shaking, draining almost in an orgasm of pleasure. It will be a warm sore, tender release trough skin into flesh.
My fangs know the way, with each solitary swallow, I get my strength.
Slowly don’t you move now, I know I am in your head, but I need your blood and it is your time to go. Slowly perfect, skillful, it is an art of pleasure an art of perfection. Through the ages I have grown to enjoy the splendour.
My first week as this beast I was urgent, ripping up skin and pinning bodies down, to get the blood like a horrible monster. Fighting trough the thick black night to get my feeding done and over. I hated it, being this monster needing their blood.
Trough the ages I have learned that it does not help to be so urgent so needy, so resentful to my dark gift. The prey won’t easily give way, but then again, most men won’t fight a woman with red hair and green eyes, lily white skin and a small figure. If she softly bites his neck. He might think she has some kind of fetish and would easily give in to being tied up with lace and silk. I also found that in this new Millennium men like the idea of bondage, and a woman in control. Made my hunt so much more intriguing. By the time they realised I am actually drinking their blood they were too weak to fight my tiny body off.
The pleasure of this will last well into my future.
This is now a story to tell.