Ficlets

“Simone” knew hunger. Not just desire or lust, but hunger in it’s most mortal of definitions. She needed to feed on the life-force, the essence, of a mortal, and soon. If not, she would starve to death.

There was only one way to gather the essence: to steal it from a mortal man in the throes of passion. Simone had been forced to take her last conquest quickly, not being able to fully enjoy the new experiences this body offered her. She longed to fully utilize this shell: to take a man beyond the point of exhaustion; to use him for hours, wringing every precious drop of essence from him; to feel him spurt his very life into her and to feel him die with a final shuddering breath. The thought of it caused a new wave of pangs, and she doubled over, holding onto a street lamp for support.

An aged human in a clerical collar helped her stand. “Are you alright, Miss?” he asked, concerned and kind. Simone looked him over. He was old, but he would have to do.

She smiled. “Much better, now that you’ve come along.”