My Precious Nightmare

13: Like Mother's Milk

She thought she was dreaming.

A beautiful monster stood in a doorway above a lip of bean bag felt, lit from behind by an old, orange streetlight. His eyes glowed like small LED lights.

As he had behind the dumpster, the prankster man looked at her with surreal, inhuman hunger. She couldn't see clothes other than a dark patch of skin-tight shorts. His jaw hung open like the dead, heavy with red-lit fangs reaching towards one another like stalagmites and stalactites in a cave.

The door squeaked close behind him, cutting off the light, leaving the lone glow of his scarlet eyes to shine like matches in the dark. Emotionless. Inhuman. Hungry.

She only had time to blink. Then he came down on her, burying her deeper into the beanbag. His breath puffed sickly sweet across her face, contrasting with the sour musk of rust. Spit from his gaping mouth dripped onto her face.

"Wait," she gasped.

She couldn't breathe beneath his weight.

She braced herself for the clamping blades to both cut and flatten her throat. She could remember the agony and the snap of her windpipe being snapped like a straw. Perhaps she could survive it again, though she couldn't fathom how she had survived it then.

But the suffocating agony didn't come. Instead, the hard, sharp pain came from her right middle finger.

When she yipped in alarm, something soft, warm, and wet licked at the pain, soothing it.

She lifted her head to peek, shaking from the mixture of remaining sedatives and adrenaline. It was too dark to see much but the glow of the white streaks in his hair and the paleness of his bare skin, but she could feel his night-cooled hair against her throat and his mouth wrapped around her finger.

She managed to pull up her knee to give her the barest relief from his weight to breathe, though only in quick, tight gasps. What little she could see was already bursting with black stars.

Just as she began to wish she'd just pass out already, he rolled off her to pull flush against her side, flinging a leg over her thighs. He took her finger with him, but she got what she needed: a lungful of air.

The gentle licking gave way to a hard, stinging suck. Her heart hitched. She started to tremble, then to cry.

The vampire pulled back from where he had curled about her hand to give her a bleary, half-lidded glance of lit red irises. She could once again just see in the dim glow of his eyes. Her fear wavered in the sudden overwhelming impression he gave her of baby pulling back sleepily from its mother's breast.

Then she saw the blood beading from multiple fang holes down her white index finger in that faintest of light. The whiteness of his hand positively glowed.

He blinked. Darkness flickered in and out. Then after grazing his nose against her upper arm, he closed his eyes and went back to his suckling. It still hurt like hell. She had to clench her teeth to stop from whimpering. But compared to him biting her neck, it was nothing.

Her mini, mental Sky rolled her eyes and muttered 'You shouldn't be finding the positives in being fed on by a vampire, you're being fed on by a vampire!'

Yet, sooner than she hoped, her finger fell out of his mouth with a little 'pop' and his face slid down the incline of the beanbag to nestle against her breasts (the sensation of which only made her cry harder). By his slow rhythmic breathing, she assumed he had fallen asleep, though he had hardly looked awake to begin with. So, perhaps, vampires slept?

Threat of being eaten alive gone, she came down from her shuddering adrenaline to feel that he was, indeed, wearing basically nothing. Boxers would have covered more than the stretchy shorts he wore. It only made her situation so much worse. She'd had little to no positive physical contact with men all her life, having no father or extended family to speak of. Her intense shyness had kept her from befriending boys, and others in general. Sky was perhaps the closest to masculinity as she'd ever get, happy boob bouncing included.