Carpe Victim

Carpe Victim-4

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His blood sours in my throat, curdles in my gut, and I choke back the need to vomit.

Something's wrong—terribly wrong. Should feel rejuvenated, energized, should feel the full force of my strength—not this rapidly spreading enervation.

His eyes open. Glitter with a mildly malicious glee.

The undead hairs at the nape of my neck prickle and twist, just as if an invisible hand had clenched up a fistful.

No, he is twisting my hair, twisting, too, our positions, puts me under him. For the first time in about a thousand years, my body fails me. Our bodies touch, and a strange paralysis spreads through me. My limbs turn heavy, leaden. I'm two beats behind him. Why? My senses? Deadened: his awakening should've alerted me—and didn't. My strength? Fighting him off should be...

...child's play," something coldly alien teases in the darkened crevices at the back of my mind.

Simple, I tell myself instead. Push him away? Hell, he should already lie in a crumpled heap at the base of his own drab, peeling wallpaper, but my limbs respond like mire-soaked logs. I might as well be wading chest-deep through saturating snow or mud. My body hasn't been this slow and awkward since I was...

...mortal," that same whisper comments, drawing closer, growing more familiar, like a voice heard once and dimly remembered or a voice distorted by a....

"...dream?"

I jerk my knee up, trying to kick, but he anticipates me, jams his knee into my thigh. Forces it aside, forces his way between my legs. Our sexes press hard against each other, his as demanding as if he hadn't just spent himself in my hand. Clammy perspiration—thankfully not the Blood Sweat—breaks out all over me, slicks my chest, thighs and stomach, slicks me to him. Arouses me further even as dead weight presses me down—despite my resistance.

"Or because of it," that same whisper cuts in, more familiar now, recognition hovering just beyond my ken. I shake my head, pushing the thought aside. But the arousal persists, that same helpless arousal I felt in the street, against the fence. Shakes me in its grasp—and shouldn't. My body doesn't sweat, hasn't since She changed me. As for desire, yes, but not like this, not with my blood engorging me, and my own mind turning against me.

"Well, well, well, look who's finally decided to come play? This strictly a social call?" He braces his weight on his forearms, trapping me with both his body and his basilisk stare. Takes in my pressed trousers and button-down shirt. "You even dressed up a little for me. 'Ppreciate that, I truly do, but, man, was I looking forward to stripping you out of those sweet, fitted jeans." He rolls his hips. Bears down firmly on my sex then thrusts, fucking me through my clothes. "But you have me at a disadvantage: you're severely over-dressed for this play-date—."

—and smiles

I shudder again, no pleasure this time. His features, though still handsome, now remind me far too much of the woodcuts of my human past, of wolves devouring their victims, of Fenrir engulfing the sun.

He draws back, but, to my dismay, the suffocating layer of pressure remains. Is this some Hag Ridden nightmare that's descended upon me, that I must endure wide awake? I still can't move—unless he moves me. Slips his arm under my knee, to position me where he wants. He drops down to slide close, face near my straining zipper, as though to suck me. Catches, instead, my shirt between his teeth right above my navel. Teases the fabric clear of my trousers with slow and studied care. Spits away the cloth to breathe against my constricting muscles. "Time to level the playing field."

Meaning...me.

Oh, yes. . .

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