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She is my vampire. She is my master.
“I’ve been alive for 500 years,” she says, running her fingers down the side of my stubbled face. “Yet you were waiting for me. You were waiting for me this whole time.”
I flip her, cage her there, between my arms. Her neck is warm, on my lips. That’s the heat coming off of my breath.
That’s not her skin.
“Oh, Caleb. More of the same,” she says, and feigns a shove—too strong for a woman, too weak to be honest.
And it is there, cradled softly between her legs that I see relief, this picture I’ve been searching for. This bleak etching, this painful glance.
And it’s me, breaking apart inside of her, as she guides my member between her folds, asking in my ear if she’s wet enough for me. But I will make her wet.
For the fourth time, my chancellor’s teeth rip into me. Her fangs pierce my skin and all blood seems to drain immediately out of my mind.
How she manages to not drain the blood out of my erect cock is a mystery to me.
I just know that the dizzying, blank feeling; the limp falling of my arms; the uncontrolled thrusts with which I pillion her are enough to make me creep back into my teacher’s room, every full moon when her form is true, and partake of what she once partook of: the terrible rending of mother from son.
The ripping of soul from the body.