Gluttony: A Vampire Story (from a dream)
–blood, (!!!) like far more than your common or garden variety fangbanger porn
–possible gross out amounts for real, just sayin’
–vague worship-like D/s dynamics
–excessive, cliche gothiness
A/N: Taken directly from a dream I had and unchanged. Blame my therapists and Anne Rice I guess;)
For @lisams20 who sent me Adam sex goodness. Yeah, I should be writing poetry for a workshop tonight but fuck it: Let’s make a goddamn mess & call it a warm-up exercise! (I feel like @angelsseb might like this too but I’m not sure.)
It’s long past midnight when He comes. I stir only enough to register His form in the half-dark. The room is all candle-glow on white surfaces: the bedsheets are cool and pristine satin and the room is marble and gleaming, floor to ceiling.
His profile is sharp but soft–the hard lines of His nose and jaw contrast with soft dark curls. He comes toward me and I’m in a trance, ready to slake His thirst.
He’s not tasted me before but He is so familiar. Longing builds to an ache inside me. I feel my pulse thrum at my neck and heat pool in my core. And He is vibrating with hunger.
When he comes I rise eagerly into His arms and he cups my head as he traces a long, silken finger along my pulse. His touch is barely restrained strength and need. It’s a highly cultivated artifice, the elegance and care with which He moves and touches.
He dips His face toward me at last, the length of His nose and the plane of His cheek resting against me.
I incline my neck further in offering.
He clamps down and it’s snakebite pain–too sharp and quick to hurt beyond a sting. I’m open for Him and it’s a delicious surrender.
He takes long, hard gulps from my veins and I can feel the relief in Him as it fills His throat. Hunger sates, he pulls back. But His eyes are wild and the veneer of culture seems to be falling away. I realize for the first time that He is power and base need and I would retreat but I can’t move.
He growls and moves back in, though I can feel that he’s not longer hungry. He is just chasing the taste.
He takes a long, rough pull from my neck again but He’s sloppy and beastlike now. My blood floods his mouth.
He hums around it, then spits it carelessly to the side.
He throws Himself into the feed and he drains and discards the claret fluid in a careless, obscene stain on the white of the bed.
He’s a frenzy of drinking and I float–I’m safe and well, but dazed. Almost out of body, I watch the scene. I find it terrible but unbearably beautiful, this painterly cascade of scarlet on white.
The image fades, and I think of the gluttony of Romans feasting until their bellies spilled over as He sucks and sucks like Bacchus quaffing from a wineskin.