"Cow's blood? You expect me to drink such filthy, low-class stuff? I'll never --- never -- !!"
Morissa gasped as the compulsion took hold. Suddenly, her mind was filled with thoughts of gallons of warm, pulsing blood, thick with the taste of raw beef. Thundering hooves and frightened lowing filled her ears.
Cow. I've got to have cow!
Shoving the woman in front of her aside, as if in a dream, she stumbled forward. The peasants kept dairy herds, she knew. If she sent her servants now, she could have a cow here within the hour. Her throat felt so parched, and only one thing could quench the thirst...
With one great, guttural moo, her mind went blank.
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Morissa came to her senses some time later, feeling sick and heavy. She was in her bedchamber, tangled in the sheets, her powder-white body completely nude.
And yet, no longer powder-white, for as she looked down at herself she realized that she was flushed almost to the color of a tomato, and her stomach was so distended it could have been mistaken for one. She coughed and sputtered, spitting up a few drops of blood. She was so full that lying on her back made it hard to breathe, though she didn't technically need to.
She rolled over onto her side, feeling the immense amount of liquid sloshing around inside her belly and guts like a waterbed. Lying next to the bed, legs in the air, was a dead cow.
Don't tell me I drank the whole thing myself, Morissa thought. She belched, and another thin stream of blood dribbled down her cheek.
With a snap of her fingers, she summoned her phantasmal servants to clean the bedchamber, remove the dried-out cow, and scrub her clean. When they'd finished, she slipped into her loosest robe and, with some difficulty, sat up, sloshing audibly.
"Ugh," she grunted miserably.
The worst part was, in the back of her mind, she knew the compulsion would return. She shuddered, sloshing again as she did so.