Verses By Beordoon

Musings of a Maskuraid…

WRONG TURN

Photo Credits  – Google

He reared backwards from the prone body on his bed in horror.

“Sheila,” he called softly. She didn’t respond.

“Sheila,” he called again, louder this time. Still there was no response.

Her beautifully firm brown tipped breasts stared at the ceiling, and her chest was still. From his crouching position he could see that her eyes was open but there was no sight in them. Slowly he moved closer and felt her wrist, then her neck. Her body was still warm, but there was no pulse.

His heart jumped into his mouth as the ominous words of his mentor reverberated in his skull.

“Consent is key. Always make sure you have their consent. Never ever go in without their express consent. To do so has dire consequences.”

Sweat broke out on his forehead.

But she had been aware. She had known.

He had told her about himself.

He had asked…or had he?

Shit!

They had been sitting close to each other on the living room sofa, looking deeply into each other’s eyes. Conversation was on hold and her unopened sweating bottle of soft drink stood totally forgotten on the carved wooden stool. Before then he had had no intentions, but bathing in her body heat and inhaling the aromatic smell of her golden skin had done something to his senses.

The hunger was as swift as it was sudden.

“May I…”

He hadn’t finished when her red painted lips flew across the few inches still separating them and plastered themselves on his, her hot tongue forcefully thrust into his mouth. He could feel her excited heart rapidly slamming into her ribcage as their torsos met.

How they got from the sofa to the bed in the other room he couldn’t recall, but there they were, naked bodies entwined, and still engrossed in tongue wrestling.

Then she suddenly arched away from him, throwing back her head and exposing her neck. The classic pose of surrender.

He took that as his cue and went in.

Looking at her unmoving nakedness now, he knew he had been wrong. He had misread her body language. She probably had taken his candid admission to being a vampire as a joke.

Now she was dead, and he was in trouble.

The sound of an approaching siren reached his ears through the closed window. He looked at her one last time, then sprang off the bed towards the wardrobe.  He would be gone before the body police arrived.

He had no option.

He had broken the cardinal rule.

A vampire never fed without the provider’s permission.

Oversight wasn’t an excuse.

 

 

 

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