Essence of Man

The air is too hot, my corset too tight, and the flush in my cheeks is as much from the disconcerting effect both have on my libido as from the discomfort of the pressure created by the object and atmosphere.  I am overwarm.  Aroused.  My skin is hypersensitive and the creamy slickness dripping between my thighs is making it difficult to concentrate.

I have dressed for the evening, in full Victorian regalia, as Mina Harker – complete with vampiric puncture wounds *just* visible at the top lace line of my collar – and there is nothing I want more desperately at the moment than to escape from the throngs pressed too tightly together (Why did I let you talk me into this costume party?  Why?) in this space in favor of pressing much more tightly into you.  Or rather, you need to press tightly into me.

In.side.Me.

Preferably without the hindrance of these damnable petticoats.

I lean my body into yours, gliding my tongue over the throb of your heartbeat in your neck, flutter my lips against your pulse, gently tug your ear between my teeth, and tell you as much:  “I need you inside me.”

The quirk of your brow following the sharp intake of your breath in response is all the encouragement I need, and I grab you by the lapels to lead you out of the room.

“Why, Mrs Harker,” you tease as we maneuver past Elvis and Wonder Woman snogging in the corner, “I do believe you are trying to seduce me.  Whatever will your husband think?”

“He’ll know exactly what I’ve done,”  I say, playing the part of the reluctant vampiress.  “And why.”

“And why?”

“Oh yes.”  A small smile flirts around my lips.  “He knows exactly what Dracu-licious has done to me, and is well aware that I must have the essence of man to survive.”

You look worried for a moment.  We have rules about leaving marks, and I can read in your face that you are concerned I might be about to bend them.  “Do you plan to suck my blood?” you ask, donning your best blasé, befitting of the unruffle-able character you are channeling for our casual cosplay this evening, but failing to hide your unsurety of whether you should be concerned.

“Well.  I plan to suck, Mr Stoker…”

The most delightful sound emits from your throat at this admission.

“…but it’s not your blood I’m after.”

Your confusion is delightful to watch, but there are other much more delightful things I wish to be doing, so I save you from your perplexity while guiding us down the hallway.

“Vampiricism requires those afflicted to feed off the essence of man,” I explain.  “Why anybody ever thought the essence of man should be extracted from veins is beyond me.  I, for one, intend to extract the essence of my man…”

Your eyes widen.

“…from his cock.”

You gulp.

“Any other questions?”

“Uhhh–”

“Because if you have more questions, you’ll just have to wait to ask them.  Right now you have more important things to do.”

“I do?”

“Yes,” I say.  “The hosts of this party have a lovely – very sturdy – rosewood desk in their study.  Very Victorian.  It will go fabulously with my dress.  Which is important.”

“It is?”

“Indeed.  You’ll see.”

“I will?”

“You will.  As soon as I’m bent over said desk with my skirts hiked up over my hips for you to fuck me.”

That noise again from your throat, half choke and half growl, finds an echoing moan trapped in my own.  I lean in again, at the door to our destination now.  Throaty and low, my voice vibrates against your ear.

“I need the essence of man, my darling Stoker.  Come.  Fill me with yours.”

.