She wraps her arms around me just like always, tilting her head to one side, offering me her delicate neck.
We’ve done this countless times, but she still gives a tiny shiver of anticipation as my lips touch my favorite place and my fangs pierce deep into my thrall.
She whimpers and gently squirms in such an enticing way, as though this were our first time. The rush of blood in my mouth tastes as sweet as ever.
Ah, but I must resist the familiar temptation to draw too much. I must not ruin my favorite thrall.
I seal her closed with a kiss, and I continue to hold her, stroking her soft hair. It is her habit to fall asleep after a draining, and my embrace comforts her as she drifts away.
I admit it gives me pleasure as well, having her in my lap while she rests.
I run my fingertips down her neck, tracing the shape of her back through the dress, down to the curve of her hips, where I grip her with a firm, possessive hand.
Mine. This precious creature belongs utterly to me, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Another hunger rises to replace the one I just satiated. My hand travels to her breast, giving it a lustful squeeze.
The soft, sleepy twist of her lips into a smile encourages me to continue even as she drifts away from consciousness.
I do not require her active participation for this part either, but I offer her the dignity of taking her to bed before I pull her dress off and use her body.
She is my thrall, and she is mine in every way I desire.
I make a mess of her. Then I clean her up and dress her.
Afterward I trace a thumb over the fine lines developing on her face. It feels like just yesterday she offered herself to me for the first time and showed me how much she wanted this life, but it must be two decades ago now.
Scant few decades left with her, isn’t there?
No other thrall of mine craved all of this as much as she did. She became my very favorite so quickly, and there would be no replacing her when her mortal body eventually failed.
Unacceptable. But what alternative is there? To make her a vampire like me?
She is no predator. To exist as I do would be misery to her. Worse still for her is that I would no longer drink from her, and she would feel that as abandonment.
It would preserve her, but she would not thank me for it.
With love, I pull the covers over my thrall, lay in bed with her, and hold her.
The next day, I contact my network of friends. It is not long before someone proposes an alternative.
I make my thrall a particularly fine breakfast for her last day of humanity.
She does not ask what I have planned. She does not need to know. She trusts me to do with her what is in my best interests.
How might she might react to learning I consider her interests as well?
I do not personally know the witch who arrives at my house promptly at sundown.
It introduces itself as the Marrow, and although this masked figure’s strange, jerking, bird-like mannerisms are slightly off-putting, it comes highly recommended by a friend whose input I value.
My thrall clings to my side, taking comfort in my presence. I pat her arm reassuringly while the Marrow sets up its equipment in the spare room.
I have her lie on the repurposed operating table, and with a kiss to her forehead, she falls into dreamless slumber.
By the time she wakes again, the witch has already left, declining my hospitality with a brusque wave of the hand that I—generously, in my personal estimation—choose not to interpret as rude.
She stares for a long moment at the unceremoniously discarded organs by the table.
“Yours,” I tell her. “The unnecessary ones, at least. But I am sure you feel that precious heart of yours still beating inside you, though, yes?”
She brings one hand to her chest, confirming my words.
“Not unaltered, of course. That witch’s magic should last at least a thousand years before it needs—ah, what word did it use—maintenance, I believe.”
She seems only more confused, but that’s to be expected. I command her to stand and examine her new appearance in the mirror.
“Am I still human?” Her words carry a tinge of distress as she examines her flawless face and false-porcelain flesh.
“Of course not, my dear,” I say. “You are something better. Something that I can keep as mine for so much longer than I could any human.”
“You are my blood doll, a hollow thing made specifically for me to feed on,” I tell her, moving closer to wrap an arm around her waist from behind and continue speaking softly into her ear.
“You will continue producing that lovely blood of yours, darling, for me to feed on for centuries to come.”
She leans into me, and I say her favorite words of all, “there is no escape.”
I should write a letter of thanks to the witch. What an arrangement this turns out to be!
I don’t know which part is my favorite. The way my doll’s mostly hollow body fills with so much blood that she gets desperate and needy to be drained? Such a delight.
Or perhaps the way I can drink deeply of every last drop of her without hesitation? Knowing that she can endure it all is a pleasure I never imagined knowing.
Ah, but I know her favorite part, and my fondness for her inspires me to regard it highly as well.
She remains aware and alert and energetic now after I drink of her, and she seems very much to appreciate being awake to enjoy the way I indulge in my lust with her after a feeding.
Oh, precious doll, now you will be in my clutches forever. Not even death can separate us.