“Another whiskey sour, please.” She taps the glass, which is almost empty and winks playfully at the young bartender. He grins and blushes as he walks away and her eyes follow his swaying tight posterior.
She sighs. She is on a rehab, de-addiction, and convalescence, what ever you want to call it. And it does not help to be in this bustling bar, bustling with youth, energy, drugs, alcohol and the smell of sex wafting off every bead of sweat that falls to the floor. Her ears twitch at the sound of that minute splash and disintegration of bodily fluid as it collides with the smooth floor. Her tongue slowly rotates the inside of her mouth, wishing, hoping that she could taste the sweat that smelled so much of sex.
She had been sober for a month now, the most difficult month in the last ten years. Her hands still shivered at the thought of her past rendezvous, there were so many of them that faces blurred into one another to form an incomprehensible entity of pleasure.
She downs the whiskey sour in one gulp and looks around her. She knows that a woman like her, alone in the bar, would be an invitation for the vultures to come and play. What they don’t realise is that she is not the hunted, they were.
Tonight she would make an exception to her de-addiction. Tonight she would hunt.
As she stands up and smoothens her red body hugging dress, her eyes fall on the man sitting across the circular bar. It seems he has been observing her for a while.
She walks across the bar, in slow yet sure strides of a woman who knows her way around. Her hair, fall in waves across her plunging neckline. Her skin glows at the anticipation of the chase, of the hunt, the taste of blood brewed with dashes of dopamine. She bites her lips, imagining the feel of his skin and the smell of his sweat invading her senses.
And as she nears him, she realises that he never breaks eye contact. The intensity of his stare makes sleeping butterflies in her stomach stir in apprehension. She liked her prey easy, she liked them complaint. This man, with his unwavering gaze was a challenge.
“Hi”, she speaks breathless, husky and already wet with desire.
“Hi there.” He says. His voice as intense as his gaze. He stands up to shake her hand. He stands tall, at least a foot taller than her. “Oh, he is going to be contest”, she thinks.
What a wonderful way to give up her de-addiction, hunting down a prey that fights back.
Her eyes linger on his neck, right where the jugular vein throbs in exhilaration. She can almost feel its rhythmic thumping and blood flowing through his veins.
“Your place or mine.” He asks. She smiles, victorious. His place, hell yes his place. She could just walk out when done, and never look back.
“Yours.” She smiles and takes his hand as they walk out of the bar.
After a twenty-minutes of following his car, they are at his house in the outskirts of the city. It is a huge bungalow, shrouded in darkness, old in age and threatening in disposition. Just like it’s owner.
A tiny voice of conscience speaks to her, “Do you really want to go back to your old ways? Do you?” She shuts it. Her throbbing desire does not allow her to think of anything else. All she can think of is the taste of his blood on her lips and his hardness inside of her.
She walks in behind him, as he takes her hand and guides her through the old house, towards his bedroom. His bedroom is bare except for a four-poster bed and a wardrobe, just like the rest of the house. Bare minimum furniture, all that was required for her rendezvous.
He kisses her, first slowly and softly until her impatience drives him into the frenzy of kissing her hard, biting down her lips. She fiddles with the buttons on his crisp white shirt as he unzips her dress.
Ten seconds later she stands there admiring his naked body, he is big, all sinewy muscles and abs. An artist’s rendition of the perfect man. She licks her lips and pushes him down on the bed, as he keeps repeating over and over again, how beautiful she is and how her eyes are all he can think of.
She brings her index finger to his neck, and slashes with her razor sharp nail. Blood sprouts out of his vein, as his moans of desire turn into a shocked exclamation.
Their foreplay is a frenzy of kissing, licking, biting and scratching.
She places her lips on his vein, to suck in his delicious blood just as she takes his rock hard throbbing desire inside her. Slowly she starts moving up and down, in a rhythmic flow of the sweet, sweet music that plays in her head. His dopamine infused blood, gives her a head rush, and his moans of desire propel her faster and faster.
A few minutes later she lays exhausted next to this man, who broke her month long dry spell. She hopes, he is up again, soon. Because she can feel the first strokes of passion rearing its head between her legs again.
A minute later, he does not disappoint her. And sometime in the early hours of the morning, she is exhausted enough to break the cardinal rule of never sleeping over. She falls asleep in his arms.
Grating sounds wake her up, sounds of steel sharpening. She tries to lift her head, but she can’t move. Her hands, legs, head are all immobile. She slowly opens her eyes to see a bright light hanging over her head. With her peripheral vision she can figure out an empty white room, with a stretcher next to her displaying an array of surgical tools . It looks like an empty operation theatre. The first pangs of panic start pushing through her stomach.
He comes, in white overalls and a mask on his face. He holds a clamp and a scoop in his hands.
“Now, it is my turn to draw blood, hon. Starting with your beautiful eyes.” He says. As he opens her eyes wide and clamps her lids tight.
That is when she realises what the scoop is for.
Her screams are loud and many, heard by no one beyond the four walls of the white room.
Her last thoughts are how her sex addiction cost her, her friends and family, marriage, kids and now it will cost her, her life.