She turns back to him with a slight smile, her ruby-red lips curling devilishly, her dark eyes glittering with an infernal light picked out from the candle-flames, glinting red with desire and urgent need. Dressed like something from a Gothic novel, a symphony in black velvet, satin and lace, she reaches out one pale hand to caress his lust-inflamed face. Her long, sharp, colourless nails draw blood-lines across his cheek, though he feels no pain at the infliction, and looks only mildly concerned to see those long fingers, red with his blood, licked clean by her hot, eager tongue, which curls into the taste as though it was the sweetest of fine wines.
Anxious for her, he reaches out to her, but with a movement so fast his eyes falter she eludes him, and is standing suddenly in the window alcove, looking out at the full moon and pouring him a drink from a small glass vial. The liquid froths gently against the crystal goblet, and a haze of something red and intangible floats up from the vial as the liquid is poured. With exquisite grace she hands him the cup and smiles with almost greedy delight to see him gulp down its contents, knowing that the spell is now complete – he is hers entirely.
This time she lets him grab her, submits to his rough caresses and hasty kisses. Arms like sinuous bands, she wraps herself closer to him, pressing up against him in the semi-darkness and bestowing light, cool kisses on his throat. Licking her lips with a bizarre relish, she loosens his collar and unbuttons his shirt, to reveal a pale shoulder and a full chest, lightly flecked with dark brown hairs. His heart thumps visibly beneath his ribs as she lowers her head onto his throat once more, and begins slowly to descend his tight, pale body.
They fall lightly back onto the bed – a huge, four-postered affair with black silk curtains – and she resumes her domination of him. Slowly working her sensuous way down his chest to his navel, kissing and licking his flesh like a dog with a bone – hungrily, noisily, her tongue's moist lapping the only sound above that of his heavy, rasping breath – she pays little attention to his attempts to speed things up. This is her performance, and he will just have to wait his turn – she will not be rushed.
With infinite ease she loosens his belt and removes the tight leather trousers, revealing a pair of strong legs, luminously pale through lack of exposure to sunlight. With a wry smile she contemplates her own porcelain skin, glistening like some kind of sentient alabaster, liquid in its beautiful yet terrifying perfection.
As she divests him of the last of his clothing, he looks suddenly vulnerable and concerned, and reaches out to remove her gown. With one reproving hand she stops him, then rises from the bed. He watches in trance-like fascination as she unfastens the buckle at her throat and the robe tumbles in a cascade of ebony into a pool of midnight at her feet. Her thin, sinewy body is lithe and inviting, pulsing with an unnatural energy, calm and distantly cool, yet hot and throbbing with a desire he all too easily mistakes for something natural, something human.
In a moment she is on the bed again, leaning close to him, that delicious body arched exquisitely against his, driving him wild with frustrated desire. His eyelids flutter helplessly down across his large, dark, drug-dilated eyes as her lips once again move to his skin, this time continuing their descent from his navel to his newly-revealed cock.
The look of impossibly intense pleasure broadens on his face as she consumes his swollen manhood within her wide, red mouth. Her long fingers, with their perilously sharp, translucent nails, scratch bloody though painless patterns on his inner thighs, before she takes the soft, cool weights of his balls into her hands and rakes them gently with her nails and her sharp teeth. His response is a deep, gutteral moan: a sound which touches her by its necessarily primaeval nature, reminding her with a twist of bitter anguish of those long-forsaken carnal pleasures she had enjoyed so much before the transition to her present, cold, untouchable state. In anger and resentment of his pleasure she sinks those needle-sharp fangs into the hard, distended, sticky-sweet priapus in her hands, gaining a twinge of satisfaction from the numb realisation of pain and horror which convulses his now rigidly tensed body.
At last, sure now of her only remaining physical pleasure, she surrenders herself to the blood-lust, glutting herself with vicious abandon on the gushing liquids of his prostrate, yielding body, consuming blood and semen with the same animal hunger. In a crazed state of orgasmic frenzy she thrashes in the sticky mess of flesh and blood, her beautiful body a fine mesh of taut muscles carelessly streaked with gore as she feasts upon the near-dead man beneath her.
Finally, at the peak of her delirious, orgiastic joy, she throws back her dark-framed, blood-veiled face in an exclamation of strangely feminine release, and screams over the torn corpse, a wail of raw, quavering, unholy intensity that desecrates the breathless air of the incense-clouded midnight room.
The moment passes, the frenzy subsides, and the hunger has been fed once more. In a sudden moment of weakness, so like that which used to follow her mortal climaxes, she falls onto the wet, stained sheets and begins to weep; fast-flowing, silent tears of gratitude to the man who now lies dead and cold beside her hot, pounding, almost alive flesh.
She is, indeed, a femme fatale...
[27th August 1993]
Home
Back to Story Listing
Back to Literary Header
Previous
Next
