I'm Old Enough To Be His Great Grandmother

Picking up a guy in a bar

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CW: Carnal thoughts

He’s got the kind of firm body that owes equal gratitude to good genes and time spent in the gym or swimming laps. I don’t know how he spends his leisure time — we haven’t talked much beyond shameless flirting as we played pool. What I did know was that he was enjoying the view of me in a short skirt as I bent over the polished table edge to take my shot. I reciprocated by getting thirsty and flaunting my long legs and firm backside.

Deacon took a tricky shot, and a blast of heat hit my nether regions when his madras shirt pulled tightly across defined lats and deltoids. Lordy, this fellow was fit and strong! I was looking forward to being thrown around the bedroom later on. Horizontal gymnastics was my favorite kind of exercise.

“Deacon, why don’t we up the stakes?” I treated him to my most suggestive smile and leaned closer, whispering some of my filthy intentions in his ear.

He was keen alright, something reminiscent of a canoe made its outline visible within his tight jeans. He was determined to win this game. But honestly, if there was nobody in this bar, I’d climb him like a tree, press against his tight body and show him how he’d melted my panties. Tiny little things they wear in this century — mostly threads of elastic, attached to a triangle of cotton or satin.

Women in the twenty-first century also have more freedom, nothing like the sheltered life to which I was accustomed, growing from child to adolescent. But, despite its etiquette, chaperones and closeting, they didn’t manage to keep me safe from Signor Galbini, my piano teacher.

He was so ordinary to look at, while keeping his deadly secret perfectly concealed. As I admire my unblemished, pale skin I consider how much I’ve learned from my sire, and others like him over many decades. But I’ve broken my ties with dominant, misogynistic men; modern America makes the pickings easy for someone like me.

My feral eyes flick over to Deacon, currently pocketing all the balls, clearing the pool table with a wicked grin. He’s so cocky, and I can almost taste my success.

“Time to pay up blondie!” he teases, with a smirk.

I’m happy to concede defeat. As he pulls me close, his warm body against my pallid one, I hear life-giving blood pulse in his veins. Simultaneously, I savor the heat of his weapon, locked and loaded as it presses against my hip.

“Time to take me home tiger,” I grin, feeling my gums prickle, “and show me your claws.”

Deacon’s blood smells so good, that we don’t get further than the parking lot before my fangs pop out and I take my first sips of this handsome stud’s blood. Under my glamour, he’s pliant, eagerly rubbing against me, offering up his life force to slake my thirst.

I know I shouldn’t play with my food, but I have other appetites that this virile young man can feed. We’ll make a night of this before he’s drained dry and I hide his body in the woods.

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Originally Written for Redemption Magazine: Medium 
Image courtesy of Empty Nested