The blood, I demand that it not get on my pretty dress but it is recusant and goes wherever it pleases. With every slash, more flows and spurts from him. This change in me is not expected, the pleasure I feel drives me forward. The smell of the blood fills me; I can no longer keep from tasting it. I clasp my mouth around a wound I sliced into his neck and drink the warmth that pours into me. He is but a shell now and I fall back into the chaise admiring myself in the mirror at the door.

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