The Literary Assassin

Fiction, fashion, and hand-to-hand combat by Holly Messinger

WARNING: Sexual content may offend some readers.

This came from a nightmare I had. I never could figure out what, if anything, to do with it. These days I could probably sell it to one of the horror-zines as flash fiction, but that's not really my scene.

I did get to mine a little of this concept for poor mad Lisette in "Sikeston."


by Holly Messinger

all rights reserved

She opened her eyes in the dark, becoming instantly aware of the male shape lying next to her. Her nostrils twitched, large pale eyes flicking about sightlessly, and she ran her tongue over her lips. Slowly, tenderly, she bent down to the man's limp form, dragging her tongue like a thick slug across his shoulder and neck.

He twitched, moaning softly, and she pulled his torso across the mattress with alarming ease; he had learned better than to resist her as she pressed him flat on his back. She smiled, and the mist over her eyes cleared just enough so that she looked almost human in the dim light. She no longer did this solely for his benefit, although it amused her to see him respond to this luscious female form, coercing a reaction he could not control.

She shoved and kicked the bedclothes off the end of the bed, then rose and swung one silky thigh across his hips, lowering her body to rub suggestively against him, feeling him grow hard against her and wringing a moan from his lips. He was fully conscious now, and the pungent smell of fear was in his sweat, even as his sex nudged eagerly against her inner thigh. Smiling again, she grasped the hem of her short lace nightgown and pulled it off over her head, then took his hands in her own and pressed his palms to her breasts. He was whimpering now, and his hands lay cold and clammy against her skin like dead sea creatures, but he did not try to pull away as she reached down and began unbuttoning his flannel pajama top.

Funny thing, that he had begun wearing shirts to bed all the time. He always wore a T-shirt now, even in the shower. When she had met him he had been obnoxiously proud of his chest and went shirtless as often as possible.

He was still beautiful, she thought admiringly, although he looked just a bit shrunken around the neck and ribs, and in the light his skin had a slightly yellow cast. He had told his boss and his friends that he was dying of liver disease. She found that uproariously funny.

She laid the last button open and gave a little gurgle of delight. He moaned, sweat standing out on his face, and spoke, so low and hoarse she almost didn't hear him. "Please, Maria," he said. "Please, not tonight. Maria? Please?"

He still called her by that ridiculous name. She pushed the flannel away from his shoulders and bent her face to his chest.

Where his nipples had been, there were now small red mouths, moist lips parting and tiny forked tongues flicking in the air, making tiny mewling sounds when they smelled her breath, calling her like young fledglings wanting to be fed. She ran her tongue along the lips of his left nipple and the infant forked tongue wrapped around her own like a lover's caress. He gritted his teeth, breath hissed in sharply between locked jaws, and his fingers bit into her thighs hard enough to bruise. She bent swiftly and sealed her mouth over his right nipple, tongue plunging deep into the welcoming orifice.

He screamed and beat at her with his fists, but she was locked in the ecstasy of feeding and her strength was impregnable. She suckled him deeply and his screams lost form and became a long whining cry of pain. His body arched with the force of being drained and she locked her thighs around him, feeling the spasms of his body in agony and orgasm with equal force. She waited until he collapsed beneath her before she released him, licking away the little trail of bloody saliva that oozed from the corner of his nipplemouth. He was shaking violently and breathing in short, harsh, shallow gasps as though trying to retch. He had vomited every night for the first two weeks, but he simply didn't have the strength anymore. He was strong, though, and had been in better physical condition when she'd met him than most of the others. She guessed he might last another month. Liver disease, indeed.

There was a dampness between her thighs and she rose delicately, turning full around to straddle his chest, and licked up all the semen that had spilled on his belly. He was unconscious by the time she finished, muscles still twitching involuntarily with reaction. Smiling again, she retrieved the covers from the floor and tucked them tenderly around his body, then kissed the tip of his nose, and, content, she curled up beside him and went back to sleep.

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