The love nest was dark but smelled of passion. Her perfume filled his nose as he stepped through the door.
“Honey,” he said, kicking off his shoes. There was no answer, but as he wandered through the short anteroom between the door and the parlor, he turned a corner and found a trail of rose petals leading up to the bedroom door. He smiled, little caring that the velvet red path was dotted with white. After all, it was their anniversary tomorrow; she had nagged him to take today off as well.
“Sweetie,” he continued, smiling. Half-dancing to the door, he tapped lightly. “Are you decent?” he called.
“Come and see,” she answered.
He opened the door unto complete darkness. A little shudder, then, but his libido was quick to turn the hint of danger into a fresh tint of excitement.
“Where’s the light?” he mumbled, reaching for the switch. Flicking it up and down without any result, he heard her say:
“I turned the lamp down. No light. Not yet. I want you to find me.”
“You want me to search?” he asked, giving the switch a parting upward flick. Taking careful steps into the darkness, he heard her giggling. “Grope about, you mean? Find something to squeeze?” He could feel the end of the bed against his leg now. Undoing his tie, he began throwing off his clothes. “You want to get right to it tonight,” he said.
“I’ve been waiting,” she paused as he lumbered onto the bed, “for ambrosia.”
“Ambrosia?” he repeated, wonderingly. He had found a foot. Pinning it with his other hand, he gave it a little tickle, but she didn’t kick or try to pull away. “You’re cold,” he realized. Going up from foot to ankle, traveling the smooth lines of the calf, his grasping hands reached the meat of her thighs, but there was no play in her, no movement; he was crawling up between her smooth and perfect legs, and they were resting there dead as logs.
He tried a little more talk:
“Are you wearing underwear?”
“Hmm,” she hummed, pleasantly enough. “Find out.”
His fingers felt all along her bare womanhood.
“You’re very cold,” he observed again. Trying, it was a herculean task for him, to think of her, he asked, “Are you feeling alright?”
“Like a god,” she whispered. Then, clearing her throat a little, “but I am a little thirsty.”
“Thirsty goddess,” he leaned forward, kissing her breasts. She did not quiver or sigh. Her arms did not enfold him. As he buried his face in her chest, he knew something was wrong, something missing, but a rising force from his lower regions drowned out the thought.
He entered her, and if she did not eagerly welcome his motion, neither did she resist. And as he was moving, in and out, his kisses rose, climbing up her neck and over her chin. Still, his cold lover did not respond.
“Proud goddess,” he mumbled. He was at her lips, breathing heavily. “Thirsty goddess. Let’s drink.”
Pressing his lips to hers, he heard her voice:
“I will, my ambrosia.”
It bore upon even his sex-inflamed mind that she could not be talking if her lips were not moving. Her lips were not moving against his. She was not returning his kisses. His motions slowed.
“Don’t stop,” it was her voice. “Keep going.”
“What is—?” he didn’t know what to ask. He reached up and touched her face, felt her eye with the tip of his finger. She didn’t blink.
He pulled out.
“What’s going on?”
He reached over for the lampstand, and fumbling blind for a moment, managed to turn it on.
Lying beneath him was the naked body of his lover, her gaping face empty and lifeless. Her neck, near the shoulder, had been torn, a jagged gash, but there was no blood. She was pale, horribly pale, and still, deadly still.
“Don’t stop,” her voice, it seemed to be coming from her though her mouth didn’t move at all.
“You’re dead,” he gasped, frozen there between her legs.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she said, “but I am so thirsty.”
Then, before he could blink, she leapt at him. The corpse, which hadn’t moved up to this point, flew from its pillows and, wrapping cold, stiff limbs around his body, embraced him. His penis did not know one thing from another, and picked up where he had left off, quickly growing and entering her again as she fell on top of him. A two front war for his blood, and it was all going into her as she bit down into his throat and started to suck away his life.
He struggled, briefly, before the dizziness overwhelmed him and he lay limply under her administrations. Ebbing away beneath his demon lover, he felt her cold caresses stealing every ounce of warmth inside of him. He shivered, a terrible wave of pleasure washing over him, as she drank his blood.
His head fell back over the edge of the bed, and he saw, blurrily, a figure in the doorway. He tried to focus, to squint, and then he saw.
“You’re dead,” he gasped. “You’re dead. I killed you.”
The figure nodded. “Yes,” he agreed. “You did.” Then the figure shut off the lights and closed the door, leaving the dying man to his fate.
Tale Told 