of what’s on my plate came from a pig—a decidedly unclean animal. The food tastes fresh in a way it hasn’t before. The eggs are definitely different. And the milk.
I’ve drunk a lot of milk in my time. I took the whole it does a body good propaganda to heart. But this is... incredible. Saying clean again would be redundant, but I’m no longer concerned about pathogens in the milk. Even without Christian’s blood, it’s like the dairy equivalent of a mountain spring.
I wonder if it’s the quality of the food, Christian’s blood enhancing my senses, or some combination. I don’t think my hearing seems inordinately sharper right now or my sense of smell. So it’s probably the food itself. It’s boggling to me that food like this was always available while I was eating peanut butter and jelly on white bread in complete ignorance.
I savor the meal like a hedonistic reveler at a Bacchanalia, trying not to think about the demon coming back later or what he might do to me in the night, where we might go, who he might kill. I wish he fell dead each morning, like some vampire myths where nothing can wake them in the day.
I wish I could be certain of that one block of time where I would be safe with no chance of him waking and coming for me. If what he told me when I woke is true, then he’s scarier in the daylight. The fear I might inadvertently wake him even if not out of disobedience, has taken root and won’t let go.
The door opens just as I’m finishing the last bit of eggs on my plate. I think he put cheese in them. They have that sharp tang like the scrambled eggs my grandmother used to make. It took me years to figure out the secret ingredient that made them magical was shredded sharp cheddar.
I can’t help the way my body pulls away from him, as if a few inches of movement impedes a being so fast and strong, but it’s reflexive. I know he sees it; he notices all my flinches and cringes. He’s far too perceptive for me to hide these reactions from him. Maybe if he’d been a human captor, I could bullshit my way to longer survival.
But Christian isn’t some random psychotic so stuck in his own head he doesn’t really see me. He sees me, and that’s the scariest thing of all. He knows my deepest secrets and hopes and fears because he’s listened in on my brain for years.
He stands in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, observing me. “Finish your milk,” he says, as if I’m some child—and compared to him, I am. But I obediently gulp it down. Now isn’t the time to be petulant over something stupid. I’m afraid after this morning that he’s too emotionally unhinged and out of control. Anything could set him off. If he isn’t in absolute control of himself, he could easily kill me, but that’s what he told me from the outset. It isn’t a matter of if he’ll lose control and end me, but when.
A part of me wonders why I want to prolong it. Before I can go farther down that path, Christian is on me. His weight presses me down on the bed and his face is buried in my neck. At first I think he intends to feed even though I’m sure he did that already, but he’s not feeding. He’s licking the side of my neck. Kissing. Nibbling.
The sensation is like a tickling feather. It shoots shivers down my spine and, horribly, a moan escapes my throat before I can stop it. It wasn’t like this with Devon. In all the making out we did, I thought something must be wrong with me. He never elicited that electrical feeling. Not once.
I’d only decided to give up my virginity to him because we’d been going out so long it was becoming embarrassing not to have done the deed already, and I was starting to think there was something fundamentally wrong with me. All of my friends kept asking, and I felt like such a prude for saying “not yet, not yet.”
One girl even suggested perhaps Devon was gay. I’d been mortified. The idea that I was his beard and too stupid to know it bothered me more
I’ve drunk a lot of milk in my time. I took the whole it does a body good propaganda to heart. But this is... incredible. Saying clean again would be redundant, but I’m no longer concerned about pathogens in the milk. Even without Christian’s blood, it’s like the dairy equivalent of a mountain spring.
I wonder if it’s the quality of the food, Christian’s blood enhancing my senses, or some combination. I don’t think my hearing seems inordinately sharper right now or my sense of smell. So it’s probably the food itself. It’s boggling to me that food like this was always available while I was eating peanut butter and jelly on white bread in complete ignorance.
I savor the meal like a hedonistic reveler at a Bacchanalia, trying not to think about the demon coming back later or what he might do to me in the night, where we might go, who he might kill. I wish he fell dead each morning, like some vampire myths where nothing can wake them in the day.
I wish I could be certain of that one block of time where I would be safe with no chance of him waking and coming for me. If what he told me when I woke is true, then he’s scarier in the daylight. The fear I might inadvertently wake him even if not out of disobedience, has taken root and won’t let go.
The door opens just as I’m finishing the last bit of eggs on my plate. I think he put cheese in them. They have that sharp tang like the scrambled eggs my grandmother used to make. It took me years to figure out the secret ingredient that made them magical was shredded sharp cheddar.
I can’t help the way my body pulls away from him, as if a few inches of movement impedes a being so fast and strong, but it’s reflexive. I know he sees it; he notices all my flinches and cringes. He’s far too perceptive for me to hide these reactions from him. Maybe if he’d been a human captor, I could bullshit my way to longer survival.
But Christian isn’t some random psychotic so stuck in his own head he doesn’t really see me. He sees me, and that’s the scariest thing of all. He knows my deepest secrets and hopes and fears because he’s listened in on my brain for years.
He stands in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest, observing me. “Finish your milk,” he says, as if I’m some child—and compared to him, I am. But I obediently gulp it down. Now isn’t the time to be petulant over something stupid. I’m afraid after this morning that he’s too emotionally unhinged and out of control. Anything could set him off. If he isn’t in absolute control of himself, he could easily kill me, but that’s what he told me from the outset. It isn’t a matter of if he’ll lose control and end me, but when.
A part of me wonders why I want to prolong it. Before I can go farther down that path, Christian is on me. His weight presses me down on the bed and his face is buried in my neck. At first I think he intends to feed even though I’m sure he did that already, but he’s not feeding. He’s licking the side of my neck. Kissing. Nibbling.
The sensation is like a tickling feather. It shoots shivers down my spine and, horribly, a moan escapes my throat before I can stop it. It wasn’t like this with Devon. In all the making out we did, I thought something must be wrong with me. He never elicited that electrical feeling. Not once.
I’d only decided to give up my virginity to him because we’d been going out so long it was becoming embarrassing not to have done the deed already, and I was starting to think there was something fundamentally wrong with me. All of my friends kept asking, and I felt like such a prude for saying “not yet, not yet.”
One girl even suggested perhaps Devon was gay. I’d been mortified. The idea that I was his beard and too stupid to know it bothered me more
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