Grandchild Of the Night

Nothing compares to that feeling, that delicious sweet, sticky flood down your throat. Combine that with the smell, the fear, the power, and you have one amazing rush, better than the best drug on the market.

Let me explain myself a little better. I look perfectly normal. Now, that might not be most people’s idea of a description, but it fits me. I have straight brown hair that tickles my collarbone, brown eyes, and stand at five-foot-six. I could be your friend’s ex, that girl you met at a party, or someone that you are sure you saw at the grocery store picking out fresh vegetables. It doesn't matter to  me.

I’ll start by flirting with you, calling you the strongest guy I’ve ever seen, complimenting you, clinging to you in public, make you feel like a hundred bucks. Then, I might invite you to a party, or to have dinner at my apartment, wear something way too tight, or short, act in a way to get you to suspect you might get lucky. When you get to be good and drunk, we’ll go into my bedroom, start making out. My hands will go to you're chest, push you down onto the bed, get on top. Start to kiss you're neck,  and bite. 

Hard.

You will be drunk enough not to notice the pain, think its only a really sexy come on. When the blood starts to flood my mouth, venom will flood you’re veins, paralyzing you, taking away the pain. A red haze will cover you’re vision. As soon as I’m finished, out you go, into the dumpster on 42nd street, near the bad part of town.

No one will suspect a thing, and I’ll move on, to the next city, the next victim. It’s not an ideal life, but its the only one for me. I can’t live without that drive, that thirst, it is all I am. And you don’t look scared? Well. Why don’t you come over for a glass and some dinner?