The door to her apartment was open when she came back from work. She must have left it unlocked in her morning hurry to arrive on time. Initial wariness and self-reproach were easily dismissed. This kind of thing happened to her all the time because she always rushed in the mornings. But she did not need to worry. Not in this neighborhood anyway.

She went inside, her thoughts already elsewhere. She sighed, followed by whispering “fuck”, shaking her head, wondering how many more tardy punch-ins she could afford until a formal reprimand was bestowed. Probably 2, at most.

She threw her things on the couch and tried to recall the articles on sleep hygiene she had scrolled through on her phone during her commute back home. She abruptly turned back to retrieve her smart phone from the coat she had just tossed and then she noticed something. A strange gleaming circle on her coffee table. Her eyes narrowed, focusing on it.  

It was the type of wet ring left by a cold glass on wood. What’s more, the glass must have been removed very, very recently.

Eyes widened, her body rigid with panic. She should have fucking locked the door.

She took a step back and bumped into someone’s chest.

Her mouth opened, but her scream was stifled by a sweet-smelling cloth. Her next inhale was laced with a chemical spell, which effectively began to subdue her frantic struggle against the arm that constrained her waist. Her consciousness started to fade and without it, her body was emptied of her control. The farewell thoughts that finally closed her eyes behind them were of a gleaming circle. She ceased to be and was laid down on the floor; her hair sprawled in dark tendrils around her head; her white blouse then slowly unbuttoned. With careful force and tender precision, a knife began to reap from her flesh a warm crimson flower.

The artist behind the knife smiled, transfixed by the visual effect of his work. The way her mouth was slightly open, the way her thighs were touching, her pink nipples and breasts helplessly exposed, and how she was utterly limp, her beauty impeccably framed in her state of absolute immobility. However, what made the sight aesthetically and sensually flawless were the flowing rivulets of red that conquered the pale skin of her body. He had wanted this since he first saw her. Oh, god, I want her to bleed for me, he had thought.

“Now your blood is mine.” He whispered as he wet his finger with it and tasted it. His arousal finally overwhelmed him, and he could not think, he only wanted this; this is what he needed. His body and mind became possessed by a lust unlike any other. He pleasured himself with his eyes, staring at how her blood slithered and pooled around her, his gratification growing more and more complete with each breath until it culminated in a pure and perfect ecstasy.

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