Not my story!
Walking home from the bar in the early hours of the morning probably isn’t the best idea you’ve ever had, but you’re with your friend Jake, who’s a bodybuilder, and huge and intimidating enough that you feel reasonably safe. But unfortunately it turns out that Jake is a whole lot more wasted than you realized, and despite your protests he insists on taking the shortcut through the cemetery.
It’s dark, but there’s a full moon, so you can kind of see, even though there’s a thin fog hanging in the air and you could swear the temperature dropped the moment you walked through the gates, but, you tell yourself, that’s probably just your imagination.
You shiver, pulling your coat around you, nearly tripping over a headstone when, as if out of nowhere, you see a woman approaching you.
She’s wearing a leather jacket and dark jeans, her hair pulled back, and she carries herself with a strength and power that seem to almost resonate from her, like an aura.
“Hey,” Jake says to her, puzzled, and you see her smile at him, her teeth startlingly white in the darkness. And oh shit, you suddenly realize, because those aren’t teeth, they’re fangs, and you stare in horror as she grabs Jake like he’s nothing, swinging his struggling body down in her grasp and sinking her teeth into his neck.
You’re feel like you’re frozen in place, sheer terror paralyzing you, because you can’t believe what you’re seeing is actually real, what you know this must be, what this woman is.
She lets Jake fall to the ground with a thud, and you gasp as she looks at you, her mouth bloodied, glistening dark red in the moonlight.
“Don’t worry,” she says. “Your boyfriend’s not dead.”
And you don’t know what the actual fuck is going through your head that the first thing you think to reply is a stuttered-out, “H-he’s not my boyfriend.”
She grins at you, those long, curved fangs stained red. “Yeah?”
She stalks towards you, and you force yourself to take a step back, but before you can even blink, she’s behind you, her forearm across your throat, applying just the barest threat of pressure, her other hand on your head. And she’s even stronger than you thought.
“You’re not going to scream are you?” she asks.
“No,” you reply, because you’re pretty damn sure she’ll choke you out if you do.
“Good girl,” she says. “Are you scared?”
“No,” you lie, and she laughs, her breath unnervingly cool against your ear.
“Oh yes, you are,” she says. “I can smell it on you.” She tilts your head away from her, pressing her face into your neck, inhaling the scent of your skin. “Not just fear, though, is it?” You hear her hum to herself, and she keeps one arm on your neck but wraps the other around your waist, pulling your body in close to her, her hips pushing into your ass. “You want to play, baby girl?” she murmurs.
“I…” you start, but then she licks up the side of your throat, teeth scraping over your skin, and your words dissolve into a whimper. “Please…” you whisper helplessly. “Please don’t hurt me.”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” she says. “Unless you want me to.” She gets her leg between yours, shoving her thigh upwards so it’s pressed hard and tight against you, and you swallow the moan that threatens to rise up in your throat. “Do you want me to hurt you?” she croons, so tender it’s like poison inside your head.
“You’ll like it, I promise,” she tells you, and when she kisses you, all you taste is blood.
