Her contractions don't stop my hand from moving.
Her fangs don't slow the beckoning of my fingers.
Her stillness resembles the nights petty pace.
My left hand holds on to her hair tight, as I let my thumb grind against her sensitive nub.
Time doesn't exist right now.
Her fangs send out pulses that draw my energy.
I make commas for them, one out of ten canceling her pulse.
It creates bruising, and clotting on my chest as the kinetic force ripples.
Yet I am only stalling the inevitable.
Her head atop me feels like an anvil.
The sopping noise emanating from her pants only gets louder the softer I beckon.
The longer I play with her insides, the slower the syphoning of my energy.
"Why would you give her name, to the same tired pain"?
'Shut your mouth'.
I chuckle.
Her voice sounds just as angry as when I first heard it.
My bodily functions are slowly returning.
