Hunger and Desire

Hunger and Desire

The sun was almost down, and the man still gave no sign that he was going to stop talking anytime soon. Patricia’s patience had almost run out. She had been politely indifferent to him, nodding, and occasionally acknowledging him with a murmured word or two when he pressed for a response on something. All the while not making eye contact, not even looking at him at all, but only at the distant horizon: at the final dying rays of sunlight, and the approaching darkness. Day had already fallen to twilight, and soon it would be night. Soon. Still the man would not stop talking; not go away. And her visitor would not come if the man remained there, able to see his descent from the skies. She would have to wait another twenty-eight days to see him again.
She did not want to wait.
And, if he did not see her, it would mean that someone would die tonight.
She did not want that either.

There! What at a glance, she had first thought to be a bird, was not. It was a bat: it was he. Hovering near one of the only buildings in Center City Philadelphia as tall as the one that she stood upon, he saw that she was not alone, and so remained at a distance, his wings beating impatiently, waiting.

If only the man would go away, Patricia and her intending visitor thought in unison: their thoughts together despite the distance that separated them. In truth, their impatience at the man's intrusion was not fully justified: the roof deck of Patricia's apartment building offered a spectacular view of the city. It would have been more appropriate were they grateful for the frequency with which their meetings were not disturbed.

He could come and simply kill the man, of course, but that would only result in difficulties during future meetings. More watchers would follow in his wake, authorities among them.
And besides, (and more importantly to him), she would not approve.

Another half-hour crawled by. Patricia wondered if his wings were getting tired. Behind her, the man continued speaking, oblivious to her indifference. She had ceased listening to his words some time ago, and was only dimly aware of the sound of his voice droning on. Her attention was focused almost entirely upon her visitor. When he changed, and his wings disappeared into his back, would any weariness they felt disappear also? Or would his back then be tired? Did he ever actually get tired? She resolved to ask him of these things.

Coming to the end of some anecdote he’d been relating, the man behind her chuckled at his own wit, and finally took notice that she was not chuckling along with him. He asked of her opinion, and received no response. By this point, Patricia was no longer paying him even the scant attention that she had been for politeness’ sake, so as to be aware of when he expected her to nod or murmur her agreement. He repeated his question a second time, and was again met with silence. A third time around, and realization of her disinterest at last seemed to fully settle in. He hemmed and hawed a moment more, then mumbled some excuse of very important things to do, and walked off towards the exit. Noticing the movement in her peripheral vision, her heart quickened a beat. He was leaving! She muttered “bye” loud enough so as to be relatively sure that he heard, while attempting to keep her excitement from being discernible in her voice. No need to bruise his ego, after all, she wasn’t intentionally trying to be rude; she simply had a previous engagement. And he hadn’t known he was impeding upon it.
The man looked back once as he reached the door, she had not turned to watch him go as he had hoped but not expected, and then he disappeared down the stairwell, leaving her alone.

He was there in an instant, shifting from the form of the bat as he landed upon the roof, and Patricia found herself swept up and cradled in human arms – at least in appearance. Despite his shape, he ever remained something quite other than human, something of darkness rather than light. He was the monster that fairy tales warn of. She was not afraid.

The building that Patricia lived in was twenty-five stories tall. She lived on the fourth floor. He carried her down the stairs to her apartment door in less than a minute. The elevator would have taken longer. Another ten seconds as she fumbled with the lock; somewhat giddy from the flight down, her hands were trembling slightly, and it took a moment to slide the key in. Then the door was open, and they were inside.

Their mouths locked as they fell backwards against the door, closing it with the weight of their bodies. They remained there, pressed against one another for a span of time: neither knew how long exactly, as time ceased to function properly when they were together. At length, she drew away from him, took his hand in her own, and led him to the living room, where the picnic was already laid out and waiting: fresh fruit, bread and cheese, two plates, and one glass.

He produced the wine from within the folds of his cloak, bottled in an intricately carved and bejeweled flask; it was a vintage available only to he and one other. Its rarity was unquestionable; as it had ceased being made more than a millennium ago when the continent in which it was produced had sank beneath the ocean. She had been drinking it once a month for over a year now, and still she marveled at it every time. She wondered what he would bring when his supply of it had run out. She wondered when that would be.

He removed the seal, allowing it to breathe for a moment before filling up her glass, and then placed the bottle upon the checkered blanket she had spread upon the floor. They sat opposite one another, enjoying the wine’s unusual bouquet. The flowers and fruits that lent it their taste and scent had also originated from tragically fated Atlantis, and so had long since become extinct.

Several minutes passed in a comfortable silence, as they simply sat and gazed at each other without speaking. At length he began, in the same manner as always:
“How are you?” he asked in a deep and penetrating voice that was barely above a whisper, which immediately sent a chill of pleasure down her spine. It was not the words, but the true inquiry behind them: the earnest desire to know. It was not a conversational and noncommittal type of how are you that was best answered with a simple fine. He actually wanted to hear of what she was thinking, of what she was feeling, of anything, of everything, of whatever she herself chose to share with him. He drank of her words as eagerly and desirously as she drank of the wine that they shared.

And so they sat, for a little longer than an hour, as she slowly emptied the bottle, filling her belly and blood with the impossibly exotic antediluvian wine, and speaking of any and all manner of things. She told him of her homeland in Venezuela, her preferences there and here in Philadelphia, and her dislikes of each. She told him of her family, of her friends, of old loves, of losing her virginity, and of the first time that she was with a woman. Of her schoolwork, of her favorite artists and paintings, of her own art projects, her hopes, her dreams, and her fears.

He listened raptly to every word, all the while gazing into her eyes, not merely ogling her body like dozens of men on as many bar stools. Nor was this an attempt to hypnotize her, as those of his breed were purportedly capable. Free will was one of the tenets that moved him to action. Their eyes were locked, simply because he was paying attention. What she felt, and what she thought, were as interesting and as beautiful to him as her exquisite physical features.

Sometimes, when she grew excited during a tale that she was relating, and a little light-headed from the wine, she would stammer a bit while translating her words from her native tongue into English. Usually, the word she sought would be one that does not have an exact translation. He found these instances endearing; she would become impatient with herself rather quickly, though. Then he would reassure her that she spoke the language superbly, and she would blush and call him a flatterer. Sometimes during his day sleep, he would think of this, and it would sadden him that she did not believe him. It was the truth. She spoke it better than many of the people that he had left dead in the gutters who had spoken only English.

As she poured the last few drops from the bottle into her glass, she grew suddenly silent. Butterflies of anticipation had begun to flutter in her stomach, as they always did when she reached the bottom of the bottle. She smiled to assure him that her quiet was not disquiet, then downed the remainder of her glass, and stood. He smiled up at her for a moment, appreciating her beauty from this new angle, and tilted his head slightly to further the experience, before rising to join her.

He whispered the question that had now become something of a tradition between them: “Are you willing?”
And she, the now traditional response: “I am.”

He surged to her, his movements resembling a liquid more than a man; a wave that gently lifted her in its wake, and then advanced across the apartment to deposit her, equally gently, upon the shores of her bed. His lips crushed against hers, and her hand slid to the back of his neck to try and pull him closer still, as their tongues joined together in a frenzied dance. His fingers so deftly unbuttoned her blouse that she did not realize he had done so until she was shrugging to help him in sliding it down off her shoulders. Her bra followed suit; she did not know when he had unclasped it, only shed it willingly.
He pushed her down softly onto her back, smoothed out her hair so that her head rested comfortably, and then was still for a moment, staring at the vision before him. Raven tresses cascading off the edges of the pillow, and dark and deep eyes threatening to drown one’s soul, she was every painter and every poet’s fantasy. Leaning forward, his lips almost touching her ear, he whispered: “My noble Patricia. You are… inspiration.”

And then words were replaced by his tongue, traveling slowly down her neck. Her heart quickened, as it always did, when he came so near to the pulse in her throat: that fabled spot where those of his breed usually took their supper. Her reaction was one of human instinct, albeit one that very few humans ever chance to experience in such a manner. When aciculate teeth draw very near to any of the major arteries, the body invariably does the very worst thing possible: respond with panic, thereby increasing blood flow and likelihood of attack. A similar instinctive reaction occurs when one encounters a rabid dog. The animal can detect the scent of fear, and is offended by it. Yet knowing this does not make it any less difficult to feel no fear when facing a snarling beast that is tensed and ready to pounce.

Her body reacted, but Patricia, her mind, remained unafraid. She knew he would not bite her. There wasn’t the need. Her blood already flowed freely. Perhaps then, her reaction was more complex an instinct than simple fear. Perhaps, given the circumstances, it was a subtle form of seduction: For what is more enticing to the undead than a strong heartbeat?

Then he was past her neck, placing delicate kisses between the mounds of her breasts, and savoring the outer curves of each before focusing his attention upon each of her nipples. The left, which shielded her heart, he favored just slightly longer than the right. Her breath was heaving now, as he moved further down, his tongue tracing slowly over her ribs and belly, pausing again to kiss the dimple of her belly button, and then an inch below it, and then an inch below that. Moving maddeningly slowly now, his lips stole down that final inch. His proximity to the twin pulses in each of her thighs gave cause to her heart, already racing, to redouble its efforts. He licked her once, as though tasting, and a moan escaped her lips. Then he was inside of her, and her moaning rose in volume as his tongue, seeming to know the precise location of all of her most tender spots, flickered and danced with speed of the immortal.

Her orgasms came in a flood. Greedily he gulped down her nectar, which was flavored by her blood, which was in turn flavored by the wine. A three-ingredient alchemy that produced for his sustenance an exquisite flavor incomparable to anything under the heavens: One part drink of an ancient and extinct race of gods, Two parts essence of Patricia, his personal goddess of salvation. Once per month, in accordance with the cycles of moon and the tides, she gave to him this gift; gave to him, of herself, willingly. Once per month, she gave to him not merely the means, (the precious blood that he so needed to survive), but also the desire, to remain alive.

His tongue continued to writhe within her, and she now began writhing in tandem. His hands slipped beneath the curves of her bottom, and she raised herself up slightly off the mattress to facilitate his movement. His pinkies gently teased and caressed the smaller opening beneath her sex, possibly the only spot more delicate and sensitive then where his tongue now played, and then his fingers wrapped around her legs to hold her in place.
His tongue was relentless. Patricia’s entire body trembled as wave upon wave of ecstatic pleasure coursed through her body with the force of an electrical charge. A part of her rebelled and tried to push his head away, but his grip was unyielding, and she was glad. The rush of orgasms continued, and reality ceased to have any meaning for her; only pleasure existed.
It was too much; and she blacked out.

He rose up, and sat upon the bed beside her. He watched as her body, drained of energy, shivered beneath the ebbing ripples of her ecstasy. As her breathing slowly returned to normal, he traced his finger lightly over her lips, and was rewarded with their curling into a smile. She sighed, and settled into a restful sleep, and did not see him smiling back at her. Nor did she hear him as he bent and whispered into her ear.
“My Patricia… you give me life, you give me hope.”

He pressed his lips to her forehead, and then stood and walked to the window. The sun would be rising soon; it was time for him to go. He turned back to the bed, and stole a final glance at the angel that lay sleeping there, then dissolved into a mist and disappeared.
Twenty-eight days would not pass quickly enough.