When I should be paying attention in my Intro the Theater class, what am I doing? Writing Pam drabbles.
Something in the air is unsettling. Moreso than Pam can handle.
She pulls the soft, angora sweater tighter across her chest, eyes darting in a frightened, un-vampire-like manner. She's torn in her fright: whether she wants Eric to feel her terror through the bond or not.
Shame or uncertainty?
At the moment, she needs to weigh which fear is greater- her current situation, or the torment of her master.
But what has she to fear anyway?
She runs her cold, manicured fingers through her tousled hair from the front to the back in a masculine way. How nice it is, she thinks briefly, to no longer flatten her teased locks with the finger's oils.
She tosses said white-gold mane and squares her shoulders confidently, stands at full height, and prepares to continue on along the narrow path.
The smell of animal is overwhelming.
Ruined pumps and all, she's still a fierce bitch.
Or so she'd like the beast to think.
She glances at the destroyed decorations on her feet.
Eric had best be replacing those pumps.