The Turning

by K.H. Ivywater

Written on August 12, 2001.


His eyes flash silver as fangs descend, piercing the skin of my neck roughly. The blood flows into his mouth and he sucks on the wounds, robbing me of my essence. A voice is moaning loudly, and at first I think it to be him, but realize it is me. My head is thrown back and I'm howling at the pleasure-pain. Our bodies are pressed closely together, and he grinds his hips against my own, eliciting another moan from the depths of my soul. I can feel my consciousness ebbing, my eyes beginning to droop, the sounds I form becoming more of a drowsy purr.

Then my blond murderer pulls away, placing a kiss on the small wound. As the light of the full moon shines down on our writhing forms, he bares his own neck to me, his fingernails creating a thin cut on pale skin. He takes my head in his hands and thrusts my lips towards the blood, and for the first time in my existence I taste the sweet ambrosia of life.

Sire's blood...sacred liquid, traditionally given only at the time of the turning. I drink greedily and hear him begin to pant, pulling me closer still, as if trying to merge our beings into one. There is no point in one's life when it is more possible to do so, for blood is everything, and the sharing of it creates a bond that is unbreakable, withstanding both trial and time.

He wrenches me from him all too soon. Blood smears my lips, and he licks it away, sharing with me one last gaze before my eyes close.


The End