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I played with myself, circling my needy bud and pinching it lightly, just like he had done. I leaned against the wall of my shower as the water pelted my breasts, punishing my nipples with every hard droplet. It hurt, but it felt arousing all the same.
I moaned, the sound soft at first, but the feelings of pleasure racing through me were so tumultuous and intense that I found myself growing louder. My hips rocked and my thighs flexed as my legs struggled to hold myself upright. My pleasure felt like a tightly wound coil, ready to spring free or break at any given moment.
I pushed myself harder, teased my clit faster.
When my orgasm broke over me, it was satisfying, but it was missing something. The pleasure was strong, surely, bu
t it felt empty. It wasn’t enough.
I made myself come again.
Still, it didn’t complete me. I wanted more.
I came again. And again. And again.
But none of the orgasms left me satisfied. I kept wanting more.
Finally, I realized what I was missing.
I was missing Cain. I wanted him badly and I didn’t understand why. Images of his fingers on my flesh, of the mark of his palm on my bared bottom, and of his cock plunging in and out of my tight little holes kept flashing before me, searing into my mind like a firebrand. I should hate him for what he’d done to me. He’d made me into the thing that I hated the most and worst of all, I could feel myself beginning to embrace being a vampire.
I wanted to hate it, but I couldn’t. The power he’d given me felt intoxicating. It almost felt like a gift that I should thank him for. I wouldn’t give him the pleasure though. Never. I was too proud to ever admit it.
I turned off the water and removed my hand from between my thighs. I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around myself, tying it tight before I ventured out of the bathroom and into the kitchen. I pulled a bottle of wine off the counter, opened it, and poured myself a rather generous portion. Frustrated, I sat on my couch and sipped at it, before I turned on a movie and tried to forget the incessant pulsing of my needy pussy.
It never stopped. It only seemed to get worse.
One day passed and then another. I couldn’t bring myself to dress, the feeling of fabric on my skin too much for me to bear once more. I was so sensitive that even the slightest brush against anything hurt. I tried to pleasure myself countless times but the more I tried, the more I had difficulty orgasming. By the time a week had passed, I was unable to come at all.
I was a mess. I took baths because the feeling of the shower pounding on my skin grew to be too exceedingly painful to bear. I walked around naked day and night. I didn’t leave my apartment and all the while, my pussy throbbed with need.
I was wet all the time. My thighs were always coated with arousal, so much so that it left my legs slick with it. If I wasn’t careful, I left a wet spot wherever I sat down. Every time I took a step, I was reminded of my need and it left me feeling miserable and sorry for myself.
My magical power had waned, only resurging temporarily when I had drunk my fill from the man in the alley. I knew that I was going to grow hungry again soon. It only took a few more days until that insatiable thirst gnawed at the back of my throat. I felt myself growing weaker but the passionate need to orgasm never waned, only strengthened. I was left with the fleeting hope that if I fed, that the extreme arousal would fade away. That very small glimmer of hope became my salvation, so much so that it was the only thing I could focus on. Soon, blood consumed my thoughts.
I needed to feed, and I needed to come.
I couldn’t wait much longer.
Late one night, I couldn’t do it anymore. I had to act. I put on the softest dress I owned. I cried out in agony as the cloth touched my skin, but I did it anyway, knowing that I had no choice. I slipped on a pair of flats and I looked in the mirror, cringing at what I saw.
My eyes were fully red now and I wanted to use the cover of darkness to hide them.
I had to feed, or the hunger was just going to get worse. It already felt like it was tearing me apart from the inside out because I had waited so long since that first time.
I left my apartment that night with an empty backpack on my shoulders and ventured in and out of the shadows toward the hospital. It was only about a mile from where I lived, and it was late enough that there were only a few people on the street. They kept to themselves and so did I. I ran into no trouble along the way and I was grateful for it, because the thirst was growing stronger by the second. It gnawed at me with a ferocious intensity, so very painful.
Once the hospital rose up within my sights, I breathed a sigh of relief. I knew where their blood banks were kept, and I was going to steal myself a great many meals that would keep me going for a good long while.
I moved around the back, looking for the employee entrance. I slipped inside and used every single one of my senses to sneak into the basement level where the stocks of blood were kept. I filled my bag and snuck back out without incident.
I crept down the alleyway and back into another before the hair on the back of my neck began to rise. With every single step, I felt as though I was being followed except that I didn’t hear anything at all. Not the single scrape of a shoe or an ill-timed heavy breath. Nothing. Still though, I found myself looking over my shoulder and searching for someone. I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was there and that I wasn’t alone.
I took another alley and started to weave into another before the air was drawn out of my lungs. I could feel magic on the breeze and I stiffened. There was only one man who could do that.
Cain.
He was close. I began to run, but my feet grew exceedingly heavy. It felt almost as though my feet were stuck in the mud of the forest when he had first taken me. I knew it was him and I slowed, accepting that we were about to meet and I didn’t have a choice about it. I turned around. He was there, waiting for me.
