Tasting Giles

Debra Fran Baker

dfbaker@panix.com
Bloody hell. Look at him, going about his business like this was just some ordinary day. Does he care that I'm bloody well *trapped* in his house? That *he* can come and go and if I *dare* step outside, I can't fight back?

And now he's staring at me drinking my blood *cold* from a stinking novelty cup. That is *not* how you drink blood, Mr. Rupert Ripper Giles. Blood is *hot* and flows into your mouth with every heart beat.

But you don't care, do you?

You don't know...you don't know how it makes you feel almost *alive* when that hot blood rushes in and *almost* fills the emptiness like nothing else.

I can see that blood pulsing, you know. I can *smell* it. I'm a hunter, I can smell my prey. I can imagine myself leaning over you, my arms around you, sinking my teeth into your neck - I can make that neck of yours yield to me, feed me. It would taste so sweet, so alive...

And then I remember that I've been *fixed* like a bloody dog, and you don't care at all. Wonder why you just don't toss me out into the sunlight and be done with me. Wonder why I haven't run off myself. You don't watch me anymore. I might as well not exist.

So I watch you, instead. I say things I know will disgust you to get a reaction. I watch the blood go through you. You don't know what to do with yourself now your sodding library's ashes, do you? You're not a Watcher anymore, you're not a librarian anymore. You're...you're not much different than I am, are you? We both watch the stories, we both shuffle back and forth to the fridge. But you don't look at me and I can't stop looking at you, can I?

It's not just your blood, you know. I've always felt *something* even when we were fighting. You're a good looking bloke, even now when you don't work out with *her* anymore. There's a brain behind those eyes, and that's something Harmony didn't have, or my Dru either. When we talk, when you remember I'm here, we talk.

What am I saying? We'd both kill each other in an instant if we had the chance...but before, if I could...you'd be delicious to touch. Warm, firm...you'd know when to be rough, wouldn't you? You'd know how to give it to me...how to take it, too, I'll warrant. How would *that* feel, I wonder? Hot? Tight? Damn. Not enough blood in me to even *care* about that, cause otherwise we'd be having a discussion right about now.

Or, maybe...you are looking me now, aren't you? You think those glasses hide that? They don't, RuPERT. And you got them tight jeans, and you...you have blood to spare, don't you?

So what if I move just a tad closer? You're not moving. And you're not hiding. In fact, you have the most delicious flush now. And your jeans are bursting.

You are so hot, Rupert. Mortals are, I know, but it's glowing off you. And beautiful. Did anyone ever call you that? I think I will, just to see what you say? Shocked you, did I? Well, you are, in a fuddy-duddy, bookish, goody-twoshoes way. You're very beautiful.

And I put my hand right there. Ah, you are noticing me now, aren't you? So hard, so hot, so...so much blood. So delicious. What if I taste you?

That's got you free. I wish I could...but not for now. Later, some day. When I get to drink my fill of something again. Would you fit, I wonder? I won't bite, Rupert. I *can't*. Let me...oh, yes. So hot. So big.

I'm going to make you scream, Rupert. I'm going to make you scream so loud that that little slayer of yours will come right at me. Oh, yes... salty and sweet and exactly what you should taste like. What else do you need, Rupert? A little harder, maybe? Or perhaps my hands, or the merest touch of my fangs? Oh, that made you jump, did it?

Oh, you're begging now. Such a delightful sound, that. Keep it up, and so will I. I'll just play with the other toys you have around here...round and fuzzy and just as sweet.

Ohoh, you're ready now? One more hard suck, and yes, yes, yes! Oh, yes. It's hot and it pulses with your heart and tastes like you and right now I feel alive, as if something is filling the empty place inside of me.

I let go of you when I can milk no more out, and lick my lips. You look at me and then at yourself in disgust and walk out of the room. You won't be ignoring me again...

Copyright 2000 Debra Fran Baker and NightRoads Associates


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