dances the dance of Feedback Joy.

Yay! Just got feedback for my Prague stories! That takes the total of non-Buffista readers into, oh, double figures by now! grins.

That takes the total of non-Buffista readers into, oh, double figures by now!

Yay Fay!

I adore when people I don't know read my stuff. Heck, I'm even getting nice feedback from ff.net.

"I'm a feedback slut and I'm OK ..."

Whoohoo, Fay!

the rest of Donna, Ombra:

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More:

That's what you think. "I have a villa, in the hills. It's only about twenty kilometres from here." She hesitates, and as she does so, he reaches out and tweaks her right nipple, lightly. Words spill from her in a rush. "Do you have a car? We could go there now."

The car suits the rest of him; it's a 1960s vintage Citroen. She has the windows down, and the night wind whips her fine hair into a tangle. As they head south and up into the ramparts of the mountains, she is aware of something more than the anticipation she usually accords her preferred routine of sex, food and death. This surprises her; she's several centuries old, after all, and believes herself jaded. What, then, is causing this tingle?

She turns her head to look at him. His hands are easy and in complete control of the wheel; he negotiates the thin ribbon through the tricky darkness as if he knows the way already. As if sensing her puzzlement, he turns his head briefly and smiles at her. Something in her swallows hard, wanting him.

She directs him. Up the curves and down the white road, among the tall cypress and here are her villa gates. She gets out and unlocks them; he eases the Citroen inside. With a sense of finality, she snaps the padlock home. He is hers now, for as long as she chooses.

He follows her indoors. There is no idle chat, no small talk, no questions as to what an American woman is doing living alone in this villa; he follows her upstairs without a word spoken. As the carved doors to the master suite swing closed behind them, he takes her by the hair and down on her knees hard before him. She doesn't object; in fact, she takes a peculiar pride in how good she is. After all, in another life and two deaths ago, she was a whore in Plymouth Colony. In her undead state, she has no gag reflex. Besides, it will be her turn, soon enough. The word "priapic" flits through her mind. She has never been this aroused before, in life or death.

He stops her after awhile, lifting her, tossing her across the bed. He has her skirts up around her ears, she hears herself whimper and then cry out, and as he sinks into her, she feels that same thickening of the blood in her belly, a hot coagulation of need. But there is something else, and she becomes aware of it slowly, almost too slowly.

This man, Lorenzo, he is drinking her. Not her blood, but her life force, or what he thinks is her life force. And suddenly, she understands what he is, and what he is doing, and why she has reacted to him this way.

Even as she reaches another in a series of seemingly endless orgasms, she pushes her mind to function. How does one kill what he is? Where are they vulnerable? She has forgot what his species of demon is called, has never heard of a living one. Shapeshifting, time-travelling, renewing themselves on the energy expended by the orgasms forced from those they fed on. Their supernatural weaponry was a kind of pheromone, producing almost unbearable attraction. How did she kill it? Right, you had to starve the things. Deprive them of life-force. They were invulnerable to anything else.

"oh please oh yes ohohohohoh..."

She hears herself moaning, and almost laughs. The joke is on both of them; he can't know, or at least he doesn't know, what she is. She has no life-force for him; her can't damage her. She can keep him here in her bed, letting him think he is in control. She can orgasm for the rest of time, if she chooses, and it will do her no harm at all; the only possible consequence is her own pleasure. He will starve to death, not realising what was happening, until he is too weak to struggle. And then she can feed.

"You are smiling," the demon Lorenzo tells her. "You are amused?"

"Not really," she murmurs, and gasps as he pushes her deep into the antique mattress, into yet another orgasm. "I'm just thinking how hungry I'm going to be, in the morning."

• * *

Shit. Someone please Doblerize me? I put up a drabble in the Wednesday 100, written (as drabbles tend to be) in the last few minutes at work -- which is all good -- but then I put it in my own LJ too, and I've now gone back and edited the thing four. gorramn. times.

The whole story is 100 words. It does not need my perfectionist self playing psychotic mother hen. Please take away my car keys....

YOU MUST CHILL!!!

I HAVE TAKEN YOUR EDIT KEYS!!!

Also, I'll need a quick and dirty beta tonight/tomorrow morning. Remix, y'know?

amych, step away from the short-short.

100 words is barely two paragraphs. You are not allowed to touch it any further.

That's all.

100 words is barely two paragraphs.

You think! Put in some dialogue, and you can stretch it to, like, six.

Okay, okay, I'm stepping away.

Also, I'll need a quick and dirty beta tonight/tomorrow morning. Remix, y'know?

I'll be up.