Lestat (flambeauvivant) wrote,


How often does it cross my mind to take him? I don’t know. Often. More often even than that. I’m simply made to kill him. His body is heated with life and juicy with blood and my own always knows it.

I react each and every time he touches me or I him. When my mouth closes on his I can taste the possibility of his death. Beneath each thought lies this silent and voracious yearning. When he presses close to me in the fever of passion, I can hear his heart. I can feel the beating of his veins against my skin and my tongue. I can smell the vigor of his energy upon him.

Yes, I want it. I can clearly picture what it would be like to sink my teeth without regret and pull on that precious thread of life. You know as well as I that I that the more absolute our connection to a being, the more exquisite the pleasure. The measured mouthfuls I now take, small challenges to temptation, would pale before this ultimate feast. I would know him utterly. I would be able to drink up his very being to the last tremulous drop. I would take him, body and soul and consume all that rich essence into me, drop by drop; the fantasy of every lusty lover, more or less.

And there is something wicked in me which feels this longing when he cries out, when I hurt him just a little too much - accident or not. Then I burn for more.
Tags: death, fantasy, gitano
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