|Sometimes, I write.
||[Apr. 12th, 2010|07:42 pm]
Renegade Necrophile Princess
I knew from the moment it started, I was being followed. The sound of my own high heels striking the pavement paled in comparison to the shuffling of sneakers to my alert senses. There was no asking why; a woman walking through a parking garage in Brooklyn at this time of night? She’d have to be crazy. But, to be honest, I actually haven’t been thinking straight, lately. Funny how a clear mind will do that to a Malkavian.
Admittedly, it was a funny thought when I began to consider myself as prey. The scent of excitement in my stalker’s sweat expressed a clear intention of why I was being followed, so I didn’t need to glance behind me and look at his face to understand what he wanted. ‘It’s alright’, I thought to myself, ‘I know.’
There was no hesitation in the decision to keep walking. My parked car was inviting, but I moved past the safety of its driver’s side door, and kept on. The steps behind me quickened in their urgency, and I’d be a liar if I said it didn’t make me smile. It was the irony, I suppose; the hunter being the hunted.
I live for this kind of entertainment.
The anticipation of the situation had my fangs pricking lightly against the inside of my bottom lip; grinding into the flesh with every step, like some kind of depraved vampire erection. Pleased by this new sensation of glee, I decided to egg him on, and rounded the corner so I could change my destination to an exit door. The sight of my inevitable departure must have caused a touch of exigency within my assailant, for the next thing I knew, my senses were sent reeling as stars exploded across my vision.
I had to give him credit. There was a certain class in the kind of man who would hit a woman across the back of the head with a baseball bat. My invigoration had made me foolish; I really should have checked if he was armed.
Left without wits as much as my balance, I buckled. Honestly, I recall lamenting the inevitable destruction of my silk nylons as my knees hit the oil-stained pavement beneath me. Priorities have a way of shifting into strange places when you’re dazed from a blow that should crush your skull. Thank God I’m already dead.
I remember the smell of old gasoline, mixed with human sexual desperation as I was gripped by the shoulders and rolled roughly onto my back. There wasn’t a clear view of his face, but I could tell his lips were peeled back from his teeth in the kind of sneering smile I might offer someone, myself. Well… if I was about to cause them some considerable bodily damage.
He didn’t notice me smiling back. I guess it’s hard to look at a woman’s face when you’re busy shoving your grubby hands beneath her skirt.
The enthusiasm of my garters being ripped from my hips told me exactly how the evening was moving along. It occurred to me that my assailant was a little rude, amusingly. Most men buy a woman dinner, first. But in contrast, most women don’t consider it an act of courting to be bludgeoned with a heavy object.
With the skilful way his fingers ravaged my personal space to invade my cunt, it was a surprise when he stopped to fumble with the buckle of his belt. He must have felt secure with my lack of struggle or complaint thus far, because I actually got to sit up and watch him try to free himself for a good twenty seconds.
Maybe it was a bad idea for me to decide to assist him. When I reached out to pick at the knot of his belt, he swatted my hand away in a rather disdainful manner. I think that’s when he realized something wasn’t exactly as he hoped. The stunned expression that followed was what tipped me off.
“You’re really holding things up.”
My murmur was intended as encouraging. The knit of his brow explained a different sort of reaction, and where his eagerness was limitless before, I somehow began to feel that the night was going sour. His posture slipped from overbearing and dominating, into something far more edgy and cautious. That in itself was a terrible turnoff.
“…Sh.. shut the fuck up, you crazy bitch.”
“Oh! That’s a boy. Now, say it like you mean it. Maybe you could hit me again for a bit of emphasis?”
My returning interest had me rising from where I had fallen, but as I made to reach for his belt once more, my ‘date’ warded me off with a harsh shove of his hand against my chest.
“What the hell are you on? Get the fuck off of me!”
This, admittedly, is where I began to get confused. Just a few moments before, this man was nearly wrist-deep inside of me. My vitae was not yet dry under his fingernails, and as I approached in an attempt to kiss him, he backed away from me like some kind of terrified girl. Maybe it was the fact that the baseball bat to the head didn’t do me in like he’d hoped. Or, maybe he wasn’t used to this kind of enthusiasm from his partners. Regardless, my attempts to rekindle the romance left me little more than disappointed.
To an onlooker, my expression of exasperation might have been amusing as I watched my entertainment for the evening scurry off like a dog with its tail between its legs. No one would be getting what they wanted, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was to blame.
At least I got a brief laugh out of the whole ordeal.
Cool story, sis.