September lured him, not because he was beautiful but because of her dreadful thirst. Every day, as she floated through the hallways of Fortuna College to attend her class, she felt the dryness intensify. She was always aware of the many eyes upon her; not those of a neutral gaze, nor of curiosity, nor even of admiration, but the eyes of a family watching a viper wind its way across the floor.
This boy was different, she realized. When she looked into his concave eyes, she saw his pupils widen for an instant, his lips open almost imperceptibly, and his chest stop expanding until it shuddered with a small, intimate sigh. She knew he would be her next one, so she continued down the corridor to her cello class, assured of this outcome. It was time to practice her Shostakovich concerto; for now, that was all that mattered to her.
September was 19 years old. Her chestnut hair, with strands that were turning niveal, was tied with a loose, black velvet ribbon, and cascaded past the sharp angles of her shoulders. Her eyes were as wide as a Pre-Raphaelite model, and her nose had an almost aquiline bridge that hinted at sexual predation. Yet the delicacy of her five foot two inch frame made her seem as if she could walk through you like a spirit. Her carriage and posture were unnaturally perfect, architected from years of relentless ballet training at the barre.
September’s skin was a pallid pink, almost child-like in its softness. Her lips were slightly pursed; their flesh almost translucent, as if a hard kiss might burst them like an overripe grape. Her manner of dress was always dark, loose and fluid, with many folds and layers combined into a demure, rose-like effect, yet somehow there were always unexpected gaps that left exposed her sinewy white neck, the side of her taut breasts, or a section of her muscular calf and thigh.
On her ears, nose, lower lip and other unseen places were silver jewellery, some adorned with miniature gems. When she raised her arm in class, and her sleeve fell away from her wrist to the place above her elbow, her classmates could see her arm was adorned with tattoo ink that wound around her limb, depicting scenes of sex, carnage, arcane symbols and mythical beasts. The other students recorded these details with 45-degree glances, rolling eyes, and smirking lips. Sometimes when a group of young men spoke about her, they flashed their teeth in a lusty grin and pumped their right fists against their left palm, signifying some violent sexual fantasies, yet they always spoke in a conspiratorial hush instead of typically loud male flourishes. The young women would turn away quickly when September passed, but when they looked at one another, their defensive faces would tighten into a skullish smirk of superiority. They all hated her.
But he didn’t. He was attracted to her, she realized, and September found him attractive too, if a little too conventional. She could see the vein in his neck pulsate with animal force, and it made her thirst rise up though her throat until it provoked dizziness and sickness. There was no other choice for her, she wanted him, but if she waited any longer he would only move on to another woman who would never be able to give him the kind of sex she could give him. On Friday afternoon when she saw him again in the hall, after her cello class, she pirouetted around and approached him gracefully, her chin thrust upward to catch his eyes as he was at least a foot taller than her.
“I want to know why you always look at me,” she said with a slightly upward inflection that was both a demand and a question.
He was startled, but it was accompanied by a smile, and he seemed to step backwards slightly, then regained his balance and leaned down to her ear to speak in a stage whisper: “You’re different than everyone. It’s hard for me not to look at you.”
Her eyes were an incandescent green, even under the glare of the college hallway lighting. She lifted her right hand, and her sleeve fell away as she touched his left arm. “I am different. Do you want to be, too?”
Their first time was Friday night, the same day they met, and they spent the younger part of the evening talking about their music classes (he was a year ahead of her) and listening to his compositions on piano. He poured wine for them both, and wanted to offer her some marijuana, but she strongly declined, and hinted that she would not stay any longer if he indulged in it himself. Then he began kissing her at every opportunity, when she sat beside him at the piano, in the kitchen, while sitting on the window seat, even as she passed him in the hall on her way to the washroom, and each time she returned the kiss deeply, pushing his tongue back with hers in an incredible demonstration of oral force, and he fought back with his, winding it past her thrust into a corner of her mouth or between her lips and her teeth.
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