Consummation

Jayden Blake

They're more active at night. I can hear them crashing around outside like drunks after a frat party. Every so often, a scrabbling comes from the other side of the locked, barricaded door that separates me from them.

When the sounds become too loud to ignore, I curl into a ball and put my hands over my ears. I can't bear the scratching noises they make, can't let myself imagine how it would sound and feel if it was my flesh they were clawing instead of a stainless steel door.

I turn to face the wall and huddle against it, hugging a pillow to my body. The pillow is limp and stained, but this is the closest I can get to holding Andy. My arms ache for him and it is on this pillow that his golden head last rested. If I hold it close enough, I tell myself, I might encounter a cell of living Andy, just enough to quell the dull pain.

But this pain won't be suppressed. Of course it won't; pain is so much more tenacious when it comes in the wake of joy and this, after all, is supposed to be my honeymoon. Andy and I are newlyweds, or had been, anyway. Married just days ago at the Heavenly Bliss Wedding Chapel in Las Vegas, we'd said the vows that changed my name from Laci Preston to Laci Scott, legalized them with a kiss, then set off down the highway, our Harley Road King stacked high with camping gear. Our destination: Grand Canyon. Our romantic objective: to spend our wedding night making love beneath the desert stars.

We took US 93, the desolate highway that winds through northwest Arizona. I'd never experienced the desert before and it was alien yet beautiful to me. The views made me lose my breath as we traversed the spiny, exotic terrain.

"I've never imagined it would look this way," I called to Andy. We'd pulled over on a long, flat stretch of highway for a bio break and he was watering a cactus. "So strange, but so beautiful! Look, even the sky is a different color..."

Andy appeared from behind the cactus, zipping up his jeans. He looked to the northwest, where what should have been a clear azure sky had turned a deep purplish-red, brightening to a magenta glow just along the horizon.

"Isn't that just the most gorgeous thing you've ever seen," I gushed, but Andy wore a faint frown.

"Actually, it's kind of odd," he remarked.

"Maybe it's the Las Vegas lights," I suggested.

He shook his head. "Too early. We won't see those for hours, not till it starts to get dark, and even then it'll be just a faint glow. What we've got here is something completely fucked."

"Aliens?" I teased. "Roswell's around here, isn't it?"

"No," Andy grinned. "It's about 600 miles that way." He pointed in the opposite direction.

"Oh," I said. Geography had never been my strong suit. "Well, where's Area 51 then?"

He thought for a moment, then nodded at the magenta glow. "About two hundred miles that-a-way. Maybe they're testing some new world peace enforcer or something."

I was all set to dive into that topic, always ready to sully the character of our Republican president and his puppet master administration, but Andy gave me a gentle push toward the bike. "Let's roll," he said. "You want to make Grand Canyon by nightfall, don't you?"

You bet I did. Soon we were speeding down the highway and the strange light behind us was the furthest thing from my mind. It was occupied with more important things, like the firm muscles of the chest I had my arms around and how it would feel pressed against me. Truly, I'd known that life wouldn't ever get any better.

When the first figure lurched into the road, Andy had to swerve to avoid him. It was a man who looked like he'd been in an accident, covered in blood as he was. He'd suffered an obvious head injury and his leg seemed to be hurt, as he moved in a sort of hop-skip-shuffle gait.

As Andy pulled over, I experienced a twinge of apprehension. "Maybe we should keep going," I ventured as he cut the engine. "Find a phone and call for help."

Andy shot me an incredulous look as he pulled off his helmet, already hurrying back to the man tottering in the road. "How badly hurt are you?" Andy called. "Are there others that need help, too?"

I followed a little more slowly, afraid a carload of carnage might be waiting for us over the next rise. Every nerve I had was transmitting danger signals and, all of a sudden, the loneliness of the terrain was giving me the creeps. We were so isolated, out there in the middle of nowhere.

As he reached the man, Andy recoiled and my pace slowed even more. Andy is an EMT and sees human wreckage in all of its forms, everything from assault victims beaten to a pulp to flattened road kill to suicides with their brains splattered all over the walls. On his off time he volunteers at a hospice for patients suffering from all manner of terminal ailments, too, so anything that made him hesitate was bound to be seriously repulsive.

Then I looked at the man, saw what had made Andy pause, and my feet stuck to the ground. Really, they felt like they'd taken root and wouldn't move again until someone slashed them free.

Half of his face was missing. Not injured--missing, from his nose to his left ear. The skin was gone, his left eye was a gloppy mass and the shreds of flesh clinging to the white bone resembled bits of raw hamburger. He was bathed in red from neck to waist, his hair so saturated that the color was indiscernible. His one remaining eye was coated with a queer milky glaze that made it look silver. He didn't speak as we approached, but doddered unsteadily, his mouth opening and closing as if he was trying to talk.

Andy had already recovered and was reaching for the man. "You're going to be okay," he was assuring him. I couldn't see how, but kept that to myself as Andy gently took hold of his shoulder. "Easy," he soothed. "I'll help you. Now, how..."

Swift as a rattlesnake the man twisted, his hands clamping down on Andy's left wrist. "Hey..." Andy began, then cried out when the man sank his teeth into the back of his forearm, right over the tattooed heart that read Laci.

"Andy!" I shouted, the immobility in my legs evaporating at his cry. I ran to him, grabbed and tugged his arm, and it wasn't until Andy's cries intensified that I realized I was making it worse, because the man's jaw was locked tight as a pit bull's. I pummeled the man, shoved him, then grabbed his hair and wrenched, hard enough to force him to release his death grip. The only thing that released was his scalp, a big flap of which came away in my hands. As I shrieked and flung it from me, I saw with horror that the man was gnawing the sinews of Andy's forearm, the flesh shredding under the grinding of his teeth.

I left them struggling as I fled back to the Harley and ripped off one of the bungee cords, fumbling for our small bundle of camping tools. I found it and tore it open, searching for the most lethal item we had--a hatchet.

I snatched it up and hotfooted back to the two men in the road. I swung the hatchet high, aimed at the man's head, then hesitated. Could I do it?

The man jerked his head to the side, hard, and I heard a sickening ripping of flesh. Andy let out a bellow, then dropped to his knees and I swung the hatchet with all my might. The narrow blade struck bone, hurting my hand, but cleaved deep right where his nose should have been. He quaked, teetering, and something dropped from his mouth as he fell to the ground.

I saw it was a hunk of Andy's arm and fought back a wave of nausea as I recognized the lyrically curved letters of my own name. I clutched Andy by the waist to haul him to his feet and stumbled back to our bike, his bitten arm staining my shirt red. "Andy, your arm..." I sobbed. "You can't possibly drive. Give me the keys..."

"You don't know how," he reminded me, struggling to mount the bike with his hand clamped over his arm. "Just get on."

The bike roared to life, but I hesitated. He was white as a sheet. "But your arm..."

"Move!" He was still gripping his arm and elbowed me, hard. It hurt and I was about to protest, then noticed that his eyes were trained over my shoulder.

I looked behind me. Andy's attacker had risen to his feet and was slapping at the hatchet protruding from his face like it was a mosquito, but Andy wasn't looking at him. He was looking at the six or seven more people just cresting a nearby dune, bathed in red light from the glowing sky behind them. The woman in the lead was missing a foot, but limped along just fine on the bloody stump. She led a toddler by the hand, a naked little boy whose face was so mangled that his only discernible features were half a nose and one single ear.

"Get on the fucking bike!" Andy screamed. I did and he hit the gas, spraying gravel behind us. I had to grab his belt to keep from tumbling off under the sudden acceleration.

I sobbed against the back of Andy's shoulder, shaking uncontrollably, and soon the back of his soft leather vest was stained dark with my tears. Gradually I became aware of wetness on my leg, too, and, when I looked down, I saw a red stain.

It was blood from the wound on Andy's arm. It was gushing, really pumping, and I knew he couldn't sustain that kind of blood loss for long.

I could tell by the way he drove that he was weakening and, before long, I was thankful to spot a service park. There wasn't much there, just a gray cinder block gas station and a weathered wooden building that appeared to be a diner, judging by the pink neon sign that said EAT. There were a few cars in the parking lot and I was swept by a surge of relief to see that we were no longer alone.

Andy pulled up beside the gas pumps, the bike wobbling beneath us. His face was dead white and he staggered as he got off the bike. I wrapped my arms around him and he leaned heavily against me as we went inside the gas station.

"Hello?" he called. "Hello!" but the place was deserted even though the doors were propped open. Although a dusty air conditioner occupied the bottom of one window, the hot air was circulated only by a sluggishly oscillating fan. A water cooler gurgled, a transistor radio played static and there was a half-eaten ham sandwich on top of the cluttered desk.

I rummaged through the cramped office while Andy went to the rest room to wash out the bite. I found a first aid kit and followed him, but when Andy held out his arm my stomach flipped over. There was a chunk of flesh the size of a lime missing from the back of his forearm. I fought back nausea as I smeared the wound with antibiotic cream, then packed it with gauze as he instructed. "How bad does it hurt?" I asked, bandaging it tightly.

"Not too bad. It's numb," he replied, attempting to flex his fingers. Only two of them moved. "It's deep, though. Trauma wound. We need an ER. Let's go over to that restaurant and..." He looked out the window in the direction of the diner and his words trailed off.

I followed his gaze. At the front window a portly man in cook's whites was pushing at the glass. His movements were frantic but ineffectual, as the glass waved but held fast. He paused to look over his shoulder, then picked up a skillet.

"What's he doing?" I wondered aloud as we watched him slam the skillet against the glass again and again.

The cook turned away and seemed to be hefting something. He heaved towards the window and, a moment later, a cash register crashed through the glass.

It landed on the ground and burst open, spewing money in all directions, and the cook plunged out the window right after it. His heavy body flopped the three or four feet to the ground where he lay dazed amidst broken glass and fluttering money.

"Gad, why didn't he just use the door?" I wondered as Andy pushed open the bathroom window.

"Hey!" he called to the cook. "Hey, are you all right?"

The cook looked up and a wild hope burst over his face. "No! Can you..." he began, but broke off with a Whoosh! as a tall blonde in a pink uniform dove out the broken window and landed on top of him.

He swore and kicked at her, but she caught his ankle and held fast. He struggled to his feet and managed to take a few steps, the waitress dragging along the ground behind him, and then a wave of bloody people erupted from the front door.

There were ten or fifteen of them, several clutching forks and knives, some with napkins tucked into their shirts. They covered the cook like flies on carrion, their hands clutching at his clothes. The fabric stretched and tore, exposing his enormous pale belly which they gripped, squeezed and kneaded until the flesh ruptured.

The man let forth an inhuman howl as his innards burst forth, his cook's whites turning red. Soon he was silent and still, his belly a gaping chasm from which his attackers yanked entrails. Coils of intestines and bloody chunks of meat disappeared down their ravenous, gobbling maws, right there under the shiny EAT sign.

I began to scream. I screamed and screamed, unable to tear my eyes from the feeding frenzy. The first aid kit dropped from my nerveless fingers and clattered to the ground, making me scream even louder.

Andy had taken hold of my arm, was tugging me towards the door. "Let's go," he was saying through my screaming. "Let's go let's go let's go let's go..."

I didn't resist exactly, just stood there and kept on screaming until the cook sat up and pointed at us even though he was clearly dead.

I stopped screaming with a hiccup and followed Andy outside. We got no more than a couple of steps before we saw the small throng of people near the gas pumps. They were inspecting our Harley, tugging our gear from the bungee cords and examining it with mild curiosity. Their interest seemed to increase when they turned their flat, silver gazes on us, so Andy abruptly switched directions, yanking me back inside the building. He slammed the door, locked it and that was how we came to spend our wedding night in a gas station on a remote stretch of Arizona US 93.

We were able to secure the place by barricading the door and boarding up the windows with big pieces of sheet metal. We called 911, but all we got was a whiny computer voice telling us all circuits were busy. Andy fiddled with the radio and found a news station. The broadcaster was shrieking about bio-weapons and radiation and zombies feeding on their own sin in a nasally Midwestern twang. His accent, coupled with his hysterical ranting, gave me such a headache that when the power went off a couple of hours later I was glad.

We discovered a small storage room filled with cases of soda and junk food, probably intended for stocking the vending machines out front. The room was also equipped with a narrow cot complete with a limp pillow, scratchy wool blanket and a pile of dirty magazines stacked underneath.

The room had no windows and seemed to be the most secure spot in the place, so we equipped it with the first aid kit and a few lethal-looking tools. As we finished, though, I heard scratching on the outside of the walls. I looked at Andy. "They know we're in here."

Andy looked exhausted, his sandy hair disheveled, his normally bright eyes tired and dull. "If they do, there's nothing we can do about it," he replied. "There's nowhere else to go."

"But what if they get in? Those... things. We're trapped." I hugged my shoulders and cast an uneasy glance at the office.

"They won't," he stated definitively. "We did a good job securing the place. We're safe, Laci."

By that night, a sort of preternatural calm had come over us. We settled down in the storeroom, where I chewed a Snickers bar and flipped through a copy of Hustler. Andy lay on the cot. He'd unwrapped his arm and was examining it, his brow furrowed.

"Is it still hurting?" I asked, looking up from the magazine.

"Not much," Andy replied, "which is pretty fucking weird. It ought to hurt like hell."

"Maybe it's getting better?" I asked hopefully.

"Not likely," he said. "It's getting infected." He traced the bright red lines that emanated from the wound like a sunburst.

"Do you want some more aspirin?" I rose and moved to sit beside him. The wound looked raw and ugly, leaking pus. "Should I wash it again?"

"No. We've done all we can, at least with what we've got, and there are lots more important things to worry about. It's just that the infection is setting in so quickly..." He frowned as he rewrapped the wound and a tendril of fear wormed into my heart.

"You'll be okay, though, right?"

He looked up and must have seen the fear in my eyes. "Of course I will," he said, putting his good arm around me and squeezing my waist. "It's just a nuisance, that's all."

"Can I do anything to make you more comfortable?"

"I'm not uncomfortable, just a little numb." Still, he appeared to give my question serious thought. "There's something you can do about that, though." He stopped squeezing my waist, grinned, and slipped his hand under my shirt to squeeze something else.

"Andy." I eyed him dubiously. "What can you be thinking?"

"Well, it is our wedding night," he reminded me, gently thumbing my breast. "We're safe, so..."

Safe? I could hear the zombies clawing the cinder blocks. The sound reminded me of the mice problem at our little house back in Washington. The mice would get inside the walls and chew on the Sheetrock, and they'd be so loud they'd wake us up during the night. That's what they sounded like, giant mice chewing with long, sharp teeth. If those teeth could chew through cinderblock, just imagine what they could do to flesh...

Andy's lips were searching for mine. His lips were warm and loving and familiar, and suddenly it suddenly occurred to me that he was my husband now. I was a bride and this was my wedding night, and even the flesh-eating mutants chewing on the walls couldn't change that.

Andy's tongue slipped between my lips, tender and sweet. He's a really first-class kisser and I could feel myself melting as he explored the inside of my mouth. Still I hesitated.

"I'm afraid," I whispered.

"I'll take care of you," he promised, releasing my breast and slipping his hand down inside my jeans. "Laci, you know I will. I'll never let anything happen to you."

I resisted the spurt of pleasure that coursed through me at his touch. "But I don't want to make love here, with those things outside. Not for our first time, Andy."

That's right, our first time. While Andy and I had done plenty of fooling around we were still virgins, at least by Bill Clinton standards. I'd fallen for Andy so hard, right from the start, that I knew he was the one I'd be spending my life with. I wanted the consummation of our love to be a sacred act, a hallowed memory to look back on and treasure for the rest of my life, and so I'd made him wait until we were married.

Now we were, but somehow doing it on a narrow cot in the back of a gas station with murderous flesh-eaters scratching at the door didn't quite live up to my fantasy. I couldn't stand to disappoint Andy, though, so I slid to my knees beside the cot. "Maybe we can compromise," I suggested.

His face brightened as I reached for his zipper. "Second best, but acceptable," he decided, shifting to give me easier access.

I parted the fabric of his jeans, leaned forward and took him into my mouth. "I'm going to come," he groaned before too long and he did, gasping as he filled my mouth with his seed. I kept him inside my mouth, loving the way he felt--smooth and still hard against my tongue. Somehow it felt safer, having part of him inside me.

After a few moments, he touched my hair. "Let me up, babe," he said.

I made an unwilling sound and he laughed softly as he withdrew from my mouth. He rose and I made a move to follow him, but he pushed me back down on the cot. "You stay right there," he ordered. "It's your turn next. I just need a drink of water." He kissed me tenderly and went into the office, zipping his pants as he went.

A moment later I heard the gurgle of the water cooler. I lay back, undid the buttons on my jeans, and began to peel them off. I was already trembling with anticipation because Andy has an incredible mouth and I love everything that he does to me with it.

"Do you want..." he called, but I never got to find out what he was asking, because a tremendous crash sounded from the office.

I leapt up, nearly falling over my jeans, and stumbled to the outer room, where I found Andy grappling with a man who had apparently gained access by tipping the air conditioner into the room. He'd reached through the gap in the window and locked his arms around Andy's waist. He was gray from head to toe: ashen-faced, silver-eyed, and wearing slate-colored mechanic's coveralls that sported the name LEROY over the left breast.

"Andy!" I shrieked, grabbing him and holding on for dear life.

Leroy squirmed further into the room and the window burst and shattered. I saw then that he wasn't alone, that there were others, legions of others propelling Leroy forward as they eagerly reached for a handful of my husband. Andy bucked and fought as they pulled at his clothes, his hair, his flesh...

Leroy gave a mighty jerk and suddenly both he and Andy's upper torso were on the other side of the window. Screaming hysterically, I dropped to my knees and wrapped my arms around Andy's legs. I yanked and wrenched, but slowly, inexorably, he was drawn from my grasp.

Andy's eyes met mine for the briefest second. "Run, Laci," he begged, just before they swallowed him up.

Then my beloved husband of less than twenty-four hours disappeared inside the wriggling mass of zombies. I couldn't move or make a sound. I was frozen once again, rooted, my hands clapped over my cheeks, dragging them down into a rictus of horror.

Then I felt a tugging at one of my legs and looked down. One of them had reached through the window and got hold of the jeans still trailing from my knee. The sight broke my paralysis and I yanked my leg out of the pants, then dashed for the back room. I slammed the door, threw the bolt, and shrank back against the wall, covering my ears to drown out the sound of Andy's screams. Andy my love, my husband, whose taste still lingered in my mouth.

Since then I've been right here. I can't hear much and can see even less, so I don't know what day it is, or what time. It's been days, maybe even weeks, that I've been alone here with nothing to do but mourn the loss of my husband. At first I thought the grief was more than I could stand, but now it's faded to a bleary numbness. Still I cry for him and alternately hope that the heavy door will hold and pray it will not.

I think it's been about two weeks, maybe more, when I hear footsteps approach the door. This is not unusual; zombies investigate it regularly and the door always holds. Still the sounds terrify me and I crouch on the cot, my back to the wall and my knees drawn up against my chest, to wait for the clawing and scrabbling that will inevitably follow.

Instead, a knock.

I gasp. "Who's there?"

"Laci?" The voice is gritty, thick, but unmistakably Andy's. "Laci, honey, let me in."

I fly across the room and fling open the door. My husband is standing there. His face is gaunt and pale, his clothing torn and bloodstained, and I throw my arms around him to drag him inside. I'm already crying as I slam and bolt the door behind him without letting go.

"I'm back," he murmurs against my hair. "Laci, love, it's me. I'm here."

I am hysterical, keening and wailing and so overcome I can't stand up on my own. Andy supports me, his hands gripping under my buttocks to hold me up against him.

My face is buried against his shoulder and I'm barely able to speak because of the tears. "Andy, you're all right," I babble. "Oh God... all right… how..."

My words are muffled as Andy's mouth clamps over mine. His eyes are closed as he kisses me hungrily. I'm still sobbing uncontrollably, tears gushing down my cheeks and into my mouth, and he licks the tears from my lips.

I kiss him back, hard, and he squeezes me closer. I feel his erection, enormous against my belly. He's holding me tight, close, and his fingers are groping greedily between my legs. I am crippled by the power of my emotions and submit utterly as he lowers me to the floor.

"Andy," I whisper as his mouth moves from my lips to my throat. His hair tickles my chin as he nuzzles my neck, nibbling and sucking eagerly. I moan as he tugs the panties from my unresisting body with one hand and reaches for his zipper with the other. He's so hard his pants look ready to rupture.

I push his leather vest off his shoulders, pull open his shirt to run my hands over the muscular chest I love so much, then freeze when I spot the gaping cavity in the middle it.

He's hard between my thighs, unyielding as a rod of ice. I'm frozen just as solid, my eyes riveted to the crater in his chest. It isn't bleeding--its edges are white and curled--but I can see shreds of the organs inside him and I know it isn't possible to survive such an injury.

I jerk away, which makes Andy pause. He opens his eyes, gazes down at me, and it is then that I see the flat silver glaze over his beautiful blue eyes.

I bring both fists up to club him hard in the chest, right in the vicinity of the crater. I hear a sharp crack as I connect and when he grimaces I squirm out from under him. I roll to my feet and my hand is on the door before I risk a glance over my shoulder.

Andy hasn't moved. He's laying on his side, right where I left him, his silver gaze fixed pleadingly upon me.

"Laci, don't leave me like this. Please," he adds, extending his hand. It is his left hand and I experience a twist of pain when I see his wedding ring, the mate to mine, shiny in the faint light. The bite on his arm has not healed, but has the same dry, curled look as the crater in his chest.

A shiver runs through me. "You're..." I begin, then stop. What?

He shrugs. "Different, I suppose. Changed." He rolls over on his back. His penis juts out from his body, beckoning.

A powerful, inexplicable wave of desire surges through me. I hesitate, confused, my hand still on the door. "You're one of them now," I accuse and he nods. "Why aren't you attacking me?"

"That was just the first wave," he explains dismissively. "We're finished with that. It's something else that I need from you." He reaches for his crotch, cups himself. I feel the flesh twitch between my legs.

I stare at him, fear struggling with desire and also, I realize, with love. This is Andy, my husband, and the urge to trust him is strong. Besides, I reason, he could have killed me a half dozen times by now. Could have buried his teeth in my throat, or taken a chunk out of my abdomen, or chomped my nipple clean off.

I release the doorknob. "You're a... zombie?" I ask, my gaze riveted to the long, firm tube of flesh between his legs.

"That'll do," he says. "Really there's no word yet for what we are. A new species. I suppose someone will give us a name eventually."

"How about dead, flesh-eating cannibals?" I supply tartly, to camouflage my growing desire.

"Well, you're half-right. I do have a hunger for flesh." Andy smiles and his face is as handsome as ever, even with the silver cloud over his eyes. "Your flesh. Come to me..."

He shoves his jeans down below his knees, kicks them off, and the lower half of his body is entirely unmarked, the limbs long and firm, the skin dusted with light golden hair. My mouth drops open, my tongue emerging to trace a line over my lower lip.

"You're hungry for me, too, aren't you?" he whispers. "Hungry for this..."

My sex aches with desire. My knees are trembling and, when he tells me again to come to him, I can't resist. I retrace my steps and place one foot carefully on either side of him. His rigid penis points to my center like a missile zeroing in on its target.

"I'm afraid," I confess.

"Don't be," he whispers, drawing me down on top of it. "It won't hurt. I promise you it won't."

His penis feels wonderfully big and cold as ice as it penetrates. Despite Andy's promise I still expect it to hurt and there is a brief twinge, a pinprick of pain when his progression is halted for just a moment.

Then he slides in deep and I gasp. "Finally. God, finally," Andy murmurs. "You've kept me waiting for so long, Lace. So long..."

He rises on his elbows to take my breast in his mouth and I'm so wrapped up in the ecstasy of the sex that I barely notice when his teeth pierce my skin.

He jerks his head back, taking a chunk of my flesh with him, and I cry out in shock as much as in pain. I clap my hand over my breast and, when I take it away, it is red.

"Easy," Andy murmurs, his lips stained with my blood. "That was the hardest bit, my love. The worst is over now."

"You bit me," I whisper, as he slips out from beneath me, pushes me onto my back.

"Yes," he admits. "I had to, you know. We belong together and now we will be, forever..."

I groan as he fills me again and I welcome his icy girth. Soon he throws back his head with a howl of pleasure and I feel a cool liquid drizzle.

"We'll be together?" I whisper.

"Yes, forever," he promises. I let my hands trace the familiar planes and ridges of his body, but recoil when I encounter the chasm under his shirt.

He smiles down at me. "You'll get used to that, in time," he says.

"Yes, I will," I say, pressing closer against him. "How long will it take? For me to..."

"Not long," he assures me. "Not long at all, and I'll be right here. You know I'll take care of you."

I do know this, so I don't resist when he slips out of me and takes my breast in his mouth. He suckles, moaning in ecstasy, and I realize he is lapping up the blood welling from my wound.

"I love you, Andy," I murmur. He looks up at me, his silver eyes gleaming, and I know that he loves me too.

"May I, then?" he asks. "I promise not to... do too much damage."

"Yes," I reply, "you may. Perhaps it will hurry the... process along."

And I lay back and close my eyes. Andy gives my breast a final lick, then moves his head lower, lower, until his mouth is between my legs. As he begins to feed, I fancy I can feel my eyes glazing, beginning to shine with silvery brilliance beneath their closed lids.

Jayden Blake writes in Western Massachusetts, where she lives with her partner, dogs, and two gerbils named Lemmiwinks and Mr. Slave. She has published horror, gay fiction, fantasy, and erotica. By day, she is a reference librarian.