Drip-drop.
A loud knock on the door breaks the funeral silence of the bathroom, waking her up.
What's the fun in being immortal, if you're not the sole master of your own damn private time? She's thinking, as the knocking turns into loud banging.
"Hello? Hello!" sounds the deep, menacing voice of her dear, sweet old husband. "Quit the funny games, sweetheart, I know you're in there. I can almost smell the honey dribbling down your inner thighs, so why don't you spare us the useless drama and let me in, will you?"
No doubt he can, just as I can smell the downed excessive amounts of exquisite liquor on his breath and the trickles of sweat, slowly going down his savage, haired back, tangling with it in a most disgusting way. Her rich imagination spares no details, as she opens herself with the fingers, feeling the warm content of the bathtub touching her soft lips. But wait a second: what's this second odor? "Not too eager in respecting our wedding vows, I see..." she mutters under her breath, surprise being the only feeling missing from her tone.
"What did you say? You motherless cunt! Open this door, or-"
But she doesn't get to hear the unfortunate event that would occur from not obeying his command; she closes her eyes and focuses solely on herself, shielding her thoughts from all outside interferences. Her task at hand – this play on words makes a naughty grin curl up in the corner of her mouth – requires delicacy, discretion, and most of all, solitude. Therefore, nobody can intervene. Not even the king.
For a few moments, only the drip-drop sounds provide background noise for her increasingly heavy breathing.
"That's it, you're almost there…" his voice breaks in once more, his lust so big that its echo can't fit through the keyhole all at once. "Just let me in. I promise I will take you all the way there, my darling…" he pleads, and in the back of her mind, she can picture him perfectly: a shaggy dog in heat, venomous saliva dripping down his chin, rabid eyes locked on its weak prey – the image is enough to make her fingers lose coördination, turning her wetness into an arid desert.
"I'd rather let one of our pets have its way with me, out there, in the sunlight".
The sound of the massive door almost giving in under his powerful blow mixes with his angry, roaring cuss words, creating a moment with a confusing outcome. She grins satisfied, as his distant tantrums get her wet again. "This alone could keep me going for days" she adds, her moving hands sending ripples to the still surface of the bathtub.
"I swear: at times, this immortality is way much more fun than it was panning out to be, in the beginning: the parties" – drip-drop – "the drinking" – slow moaning – "the fucking!" – her legs twitching violently – "the blood" – her head goes back, eyes open, facing the ceiling; her gaze sets on the lifeless corpse, pinned to the ceiling of the bathroom. Drip-drop.
The room could very well be mistaken for a fancy, luxurious slaughterhouse: lavish, white marble floors are covered in puddles of blood, while expensive, porcelain sinks, with details carved in solid gold, share the same pattern of splatter. It might even be considered an eccentric, revolutionary, new design, combining the extravagant with the grotesque into one flabbergasting design, if only this last piece of décor didn't take things a tad too far: a naked, skinny blonde woman, crucified to the ceiling, right on top of the bathtub. Her body is smeared with blood, red handprints on her thighs and breasts; her mouth wide open in shock, as if her deaf ears could hear the moaning and her empty, colorless eyes could see the twitching of the other woman.
Drip-drop. Her throat is slashed open, dripping into the bathtub below her, where the other is masturbating into a pool of blood.
Almost there! Her useless heart pumping blood through her veins, sending this rush throughout her body, waking her up from the dead once more. Almost as good as playing with her pet, before ripping her throat and tasting her sweetness – literally, feeding on her life – watching closely as her eyes lose their shining, the heart stops beating, the body stops fighting. It all comes back to her – all these details – rushing back, driving her over the edge, in the arms of the long awaited climax.
"Blessed be the god who gave us this gift" she whispers, raising herself up and stepping out of the bathtub, without wasting a single glance on her victim.
Her small, red footprints gleam slightly in the dim lit room, as she slowly approaches the fancy-detailed mirror, seducing the very reflection.
"Oh my, look at you!" her voice echoes through the room clear and loud, her silhouette a mesmerizing image. "What bright mind could see your dark secrets, anchored so deep below the surface of those marvelous, indecipherable eyes?"
Her right index finger starts brushing softly her lower, red lip.
"What powerful sorcerer could understand the language of your twisted thoughts, too wild for your beautiful, innocent mouth even dare to voice?"
Her left hand goes up on her thigh, caressing the smooth, translucent skin, before reaching the immaculate breast and grabbing it with the purest passion.
"What charming prince would guess that your precious body, a symbol of raw sexuality, is nothing more than a cage – a prison – for a monster so vile, that his arrogant sword-wielding arm can't even dream about slaying?"
She pinches her nipple hard, polished nails sinking into flesh, a sharp pain so enjoyable that she feels those most familiar shivers electrifying her body again, her spot soaking wet once more. A stream of blood runs over her finger and she licks it, with a satisfaction grin plastered on her face.
"Who can bed your body like it needs and feed your mind like it seeks?"
Her hands move to the cabinet below the mirror, opening its black, wooden door and picking up a shinning, golden object. She opens her mouth, appreciating each little movement and losing herself in this sacred, personal ritual.
A perfect set of white teeth is revealed. She inspects each and every one of them in detail, proud of their flawless presentation. Special attention is being given to the two, upper canines, which stand out with their bigger length and acute sharpness. She is nothing short of perfectness, thought that makes it impossible to contain the arrogant smile that follows.
"What an overwhelming disguise, for such a filthy being."
With that being said, she uses precision and attention in covering her delicate, yet deadly fangs with the luxurious, golden wrappers – an extravagant mouthpiece, as some would call it. She hisses wildly, leaning forward like an animal ready to attack, grinning at her own reflection, amused by the vulgarity of her own actions. Now that was some good fun.
Abruptly, she straightens her body and erects her back, like in a trance, lifting up both of her arms and opening her hands in a holy grace. Eyes wide open, she can see past the finite surface of the mirror, far into the future: a place where friends and foes kneel together before her god-sent presence, tasting each other for her amusement and offering themselves for her pleasure.
She doesn't laugh or even smile this time, spreading her legs, lowering her hands and opening herself up, feeling her spot tightening around her able fingers. A moan is muffled, as golden fangs pierce her lower lip, the pure blood of The First being poisoned by her expensive taste.