F4A - Marble and Glass

Her skin was linen white and marble hard. She told herself that at least. For comfort.

In truth her flesh was as soft flesh usually is. But she was cool to the touch and stood long hours on her balcony, watching the forest by moonlight. In her mind she made up stories about the animals below. The pack of wolves became her drama, with the heroic beta overthrowing the vivacious former alpha, the love triangle amongst three, an opera of fur and fangs. The squirrels her comedy of errors, hiding away their hard-found spoils and soon forgetting where they were tucked away. And then men... the men were her tragedies. Each and every one.

Now and then she knew she was their downfall, standing at her balcony. They would see her, in her long white dress, fabric thin and translucent in the moonlight. Her long and wind-tangled gold-colored hair, spilling down past her shoulders, would catch the eye with its movement, flying where the breeze took it. Some even grew close, walking through gardens below her balcony, toward the stone home hidden deep in one of the few forgotten places left. But none ever grew that close, drawn almost purely by the outline of an hourglass shape and the wisp of fabric around her that promised pleasure.

None saw her face, pretty though it was. None saw her eyes, pale blue like glass. They did not see her expression.

Only one man ever did. If one could call him that.

Though the late autumn chill sank into her skin-that-was-not-marble, she didn't feel it. It was only after, as she felt her sire approaching her room, that a bolt of cold shot down her spine and made her shake. Her throat swallowed, half anticipation, half dread. Her head turned, listening to the sound of him opening the door.

In her mind she was kneeling again. He had snapped out her fangs, knowing they will regrow, and forced her mouth down his cock. She no longer needed to breath and learned not to fight, to just swallow him down without complaint. His was a thorough man, both in action and in use of her. But every night he took a little more from her, drained a little more of her away, until she felt as fragile as a butterfly wing and more brittle than a wine glass.

A shudder went through her. A hundred days since she was turned. A hundred days of him. Almost a third a year of the burn of thirst and it being satisfied by only her maker, only the man who had found her and taken her and... Did such unspeakable things.

Wonderful things. No. She must not think that way.

She looked at the moonlit forest. Her body moved of its own accord over the railing of the balcony as the door opened fully in the next room.

She leapt and hoped she was more marble than glass.